


Vox Angelica

by Soledad



Category: Brother Cadfael - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Medieval mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 02:04:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 59,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4372964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The newly founded Priory at Farewell receives generous grants. However, not everyone is happy with that, and there is trouble brewing both within and without the cloister. Fortunately, Brother Cadfael is paying the nuns a visit - can he help the authorities to bring some light into the darkness?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> vox angelica is an organ stop, giving a gentle tremolo effect; it means “the voice of the angels”.

**Title: Vox Angelica  
Author:** Soledad

**Fandom:** **[Brother Cadfael](http://community.livejournal.com/hiddenrealms/43200.html)**  
**Genre:** Medieval mystery  
**Rating:** General

**Disclaimer:** Brother Cadfael and all other characters belong to Ellis Peters, whose talent and knowledge as a medievalist I greatly admire. Only Sister Eata and a few other nuns belong to me.

**Author’s note:** vox angelica is an organ stop, giving a gentle tremolo effect; it means “the voice of the angels”.

This story takes place after the sixteenth novel, “The Heretic’s Apprentice”, but before the seventeenth, “The Potter’s Field”.

Beta read by the generous [](http://espresso-addict.livejournal.com/profile)[**espresso_addict**](http://espresso-addict.livejournal.com/) , whom I owe my thanks. All remaining mistakes are mine, as sometimes I'm too stubborn for my own good.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER ONE - THE INVITATION**

It was early autumn in the 1143rd year of the Lord when the sad but not entirely unexpected tidings of Mother Mariana’s parting reached the Abbey of St. Peter and Paul in Shrewsbury. The elderly prioress of the Benedictine cell at Godric’s Ford had finally succumbed to her long, patiently endured illness and closed her weary eyes on this world to open them on a better one.

Her parting had been a quiet and peaceful one. She had already suffered enough in the years before, thus God, in his unfathomable mercy, spared her a painful agony at the end of her long road. The sisters accepted her death with detached sorrow. They felt the loss keenly but knew she would be in a better place – and without pain – from now on, and for that, they were grateful.

“They will miss her, but not terribly so,” said Abbot Radulfus in chapter, after his secretary, Brother Vitalis, had read the note from Godric’s Ford to the entire community. “After all, ‘tis Sister Magdalen who has held all strings in her capable hands for quite a few years by now. They will barely feel the official shift of power at all.”

Prior Robert Pennant, one of the few people who were actually aware of Sister Magdalen’s rather… colourful past, wrinkled his fine, patrician nose in distaste.

“Do you truly believe, Father, that she will be elected as Mother Mariana’s successor?” he asked, clearly not liking the thought at all. He was a bit inflexible in his ways and didn’t like events to steer away from what he believed to be the right order of things.  
  
Brother Cadfael, on the other hand, also privy to such details, hoped that it would be so. Such a small house would greatly benefit from the leadership of a resolute woman, past or no past. Besides, was it not so that crossing the threshold of a cloister erased one’s past, leaving naught else left but the future in devout service? He of all people should know it… although he also knew that things were never quite that easy. Yet even though he also knew that Sister Magdalen’s motivation had been slightly… different than his own, who was he to judge others? This was a thing between her and God, and no-one else was entitled to interfere.

Abbot Radulfus, himself a rather worldly wise man for a monk, must have had similar thoughts, for he did not react to Prior Robert’s apparent disapproval of such a likely choice.

“Succession will likely be negotiated between the sisters at Godric’s Ford and the mother house in Polesworth,” he said neutrally. “And I assume that Bishop de Clinton, as one of the chief supporters of both Polesworth and its _filialia_ , will have a word to say in the matter.”

That seemed likely indeed. After all, Roger de Clinton had been the driving force behind the foundation of the cell at Godric’s Ford as well as that of the priory at Farewell, a fledgling house barely five years old. He seemed particularly fond of the latter, making generous grants to the nuns, and urging others to do the same. If the sisters at Godric’s Ford wanted to stay in the bishop’s good graces, they could not afford to make any important decisions without consulting him first.

_Of course, Sister Magdalen would know that_ , thought Cadfael contently. She was a supremely practical woman, and whatever her motivation to take the veil might have been, no-one could deny that the cell had flourished under her unofficial leadership in these last years. She had a very good chance to get the office, in fact.

That must have been Prior Robert’s opinion as well, because he kept pressing on the topic, like a dog that cannot part with a bone.

“But she _does_ have a good chance, does she not?” he insisted.

“Indeed, she does,” said the abbot placidly. “And why should she not? She has proved her ability to serve the interest of her cell repeatedly. Was she not the one to organize their successful defence against the raiding party of Powys, just a few years ago? And that without any outside help?”

That, again, was unquestionably true, but such small matters would not change Prior Robert’s opinion about a woman with such a questionable past. He was a man of strong principles who preferred to judge and to punish first and to spare forgiveness for a later time, when the sinner had already done proper penance. Abbot Radulfus – also a man of strong principles but more given to understanding all-too-human weakness – was sometimes worried by such inflexibility. He admired perfection, too, in a detached manner, but did not expect it from mere flesh and blood.

“In any case,” continued the abbot, “the burial rites will be performed in four days’ time, and the sisters, considering the good contacts between our two houses, are asking that we send representatives to the burial. I think it’s a request that we should respect.”

“If you wish me to go, Father, I shall do so,” offered Prior Robert, torn between benevolent willingness to strengthen those poor nuns by his august presence and reluctance to be at the beck and call of _that_ woman. But the abbot shook his head.

“Nay, I believe ‘tis better if I go myself,” he said. “I was told that Bishop de Clinton would be attending personally – Mother Mariana’s family used to be a faithful vassal of the de Clintons – and I’d like to use the opportunity for a… an _informal_ meeting.”

Given the current political situation it was a reasonable choice, for what could seem less suspicious than attending to the last rites of a nun who had been suffering like a saint in the last years of her life and finally found peace with God? Of course, Prior Robert did have his objections.

“But surely, Father Abbot, you cannot go all the way without an escort?” he protested, more agitated by the rejection of his generous offer than by concern about the abbot’s welfare. Even though he truly had the best reason for concern, with footpads abroad all over the country, profiting from the general unrest caused by the civil war.

“Of course not,” agreed the abbot placidly. “Nor do I intend to ride alone. I shall need Brother Vitalis in any case, should we come to any official agreements with Bishop de Clinton about the delegation of Brother Adrianus as the confessor of the sisters at Farewell; and since Brother Cadfael is already acquainted with the sisters there, it seems only proper to take him along as well.”

_That_ did not bode particularly well with Prior Robert, who had always begrudged Cadfael the liberties given by both Abbot Radulfus and his predecessor, Heribert. But Radulfus had not asked for his opinion, so he had no other choice than to accept the decision.

Cadfael bowed his head obediently, his broad face not revealing any of the joy he felt at that moment. Content as he was in his current home, the _vagus_ still reawakened in him sometimes, and he always embraced every chance to travel. Especially in the company of Abbot Radulfus, whose measured wisdom he greatly respected.

Besides, he truly had fond memories of that little cell and its inhabitants, some of whom he had known from early childhood. So he was looking forward to seeing them again, even if the circumstances were less than joyous this time.

“Also,” continued the abbot, “Bishop de Clinton asked for our help on behalf of the priory at Farewell. As you might know, he founded that house a mere five years ago, thus the building is still going on. Bishop Robert asked us to lend the sisters Brother Conradin, who’s well known beyond these walls as a skilled stone-mason. And he mentioned that the cloister needs a decent herb garden.” He looked at Cadfael askance. “Can you afford to leave for a week or two? This might take some time.”

Cadfael nodded contentedly. “We are almost done with the last of the harvest, Father Abbot, and what remains of it, Brother Winfrid will manage without me. I shall bring ample supplies to both the infirmary and to Saint Giles, just to be on the safe side, but I don’t doubt that Brother Oswin and Brother Edmund will do just fine in my absence.”

“Can you also spare seeds and samples for the sisters?” asked Radulfus.

“Gladly,” said Cadfael. “We have enough for both, so that we won’t feel the loss. Their Sister Benedicta is a good gardener. I saw her flower garden when we rested with Brother Haluin in their house last winter – it was a thing of beauty. I’m certain that once shown how to do it, she’ll do well with the herbs, too.”

Abbot Radulfus, who – alone of the rest of the monastery – knew all too well who Sister Benedicta had once been, shot Brother Haluin a sharp glance. But Haluin’s serene face mirrored naught but a kind of peace few people could ever achieve, not even in a cloister.

“Very well, then,” said the abbot. “See that you leave the medicine cupboards well filled and your assistant well instructed. ‘Tis a long way to Lichfield and back; more so as we need to go to Godric’s Ford first.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
With Chapter adjourned, Cadfael went to the infirmary first, to check the medicine cupboard and ask Brother Edmund what he might need for his regulars in the following week or two. Some of the older brothers were too frail in body or mind – or both – to remain in the _dortoir_ , so they were given beds in a large, empty room adjoining to the private chapel, where they might pray the offices as well as their constitutions allowed. Those still able to leave their beds sat by the log fire, needing to warm their old bones even on a day as bright and warm as the current one. There they sat and talked between meals and offices and welcome diversions.

But not everyone was so lucky. There was Brother Reginald, old and so deformed in the joints that he could not rise on his own any more. Every oh-so-slight movement caused him great pain, so that he would need small doses of poppy syrup to be able to sleep at all during his long tortured nights.

Then there was Brother Rhys, Welsh like Cadfael himself, plagued by the usual tearing in his joints and cracks and aches in his ancient bones as well as by the meanderings of his mind. Fortunately, his bed neighbour, Brother Athanasius, was deaf and half-senile and thus not bothered by Rhys’ frequent – and quite loud – complaints. And Dafydd and Maurice and Adam and Everard and a few others who all had the heavy burden of aging body and weakening mind to bear. They all had their needs, and Cadfael discussed them at some length with the infirmarer and his helper, Brother Wilfred – a good-natured, soft-speaking man who walked with a stick, being lame from the years of his youth – what and when and in which dosage to give these faithful ancient souls to make the last few yards of their way on this earth as peaceful and painless as possible. As this lasted longer than they would have thought, they prayed _Terce_ together in the little chapel, knowing that their field of work would excuse their absence from the office in the abbey church.

Accompanied by Brother Wilfred who was to carry additional remedies to the infirmary, Cadfael then returned to the enclosed herb-garden that – as well as the manufactory derived from it – he had supervised for nearly twenty years by now. As always in early September, the days were still warm like in high summer, with many hours of sunshine a day, and thus the heavy fragrance of the herbs lay all over the surrounding lands like a warm blanket, making one’s eyelids want to fall closed. Under the eaves of the small timber hut that served as Cadfael’s workshop, bunches of drying herbs were dangling and rustling in the barely perceivable, warm breeze, all but sweeping their heads when they entered. It seemed as if the hut itself, dressed with oil against cracking, would breathe out scented warmth.

Not a frequent visitor to this secluded place, Brother Wilfred looked around with great interest, taking in the shelves full of jars, flasks, bottles, small boxes, clay pots and a dozen other things the purpose of which remained a mystery to him, while Cadfael selected the salves and pills and lozenges and whatever else Brother Edmund had requested. Placing everything in Wilfred’s scrip, he sent the good brother back to Edmund, turning his attention to the list Brother Oswin had sent from Saint Giles the day before.

Putting together those medicines had taken even longer, for the needs of the hospice – frequented by the rootless people who lived on the road and had no other place to go – were habitually greater than those of the infirmary. Salves and lotions were needed for the various sores, tinctures and poultices for wounds and bruises, herb wines to strengthen wasted bodies driven beyond their strength. Cadfael spent the better half of the morning with this work, attended to Sext dutifully, and thus it was well beyond noon when he finally left the abbey grounds to cross the Foregate for Saint Giles.

The hospice lay more than half a mile away, along the Foregate, at the eastern rim of the town. For some time now, Brother Oswin had been in charge, under the nominal supervision of an appointed layman by the name of Fulke Reynold. As the lay supervisor rarely came over from his own house in the Foregate to visit, Brother Oswin could pretty much do what he wanted, though, as long as his books were in order. And while he had not been as good with his numbers as Brother Mark had been, he and Reynold had an amiable relationship, based on the practice that neither of them bothered the other unnecessarily.

Outside the precinct wall, the highway led by the horse-fair, still green, albeit beginning to bleach out with the coming of autumn. The houses here were thinning out, giving room to the fields and woods that almost reached the road in some places. Walking on the wayside, Cadfael soon came to a large, lordly house, encircled by a strong stone wall, with a garden and an orchard behind it. The house lay halfway to Saint Giles and belonged to no lesser person than Roger de Clinton himself, the bishop of Lichfield and Coventry, though he rarely used it himself.

This was one of those rare occasions, it seemed. The front gates of the courtyard stood open, and a true bustle of activity could be seen within. Servants and grooms were running back and forth between house and stables, wearing liveries in the colours of the de Clintons. Apparently, the bishop had already arrived and planned to continue his way from here to Godric’s Ford, after a short rest.

_Perchance he, too, is planning to meet Father Radulfus and hold council with him quietly_ , thought Cadfael, rounding the bishop’s house, behind which the road opened out between trees.

He had already left the town well behind and was now approaching the hospice, visible at the fork of roads a bow-shot ahead, behind the wattled fence of its enclosure. The roof of the church, with its small, squat turret, barely rose above the fence. A modest little church it was, with a graveyard behind it – a sad necessity for a shelter like this, as the carven stone cross in the middle reminded everyone who cared to look. Both church and hospice were set discreetly, far enough from both roads leading to the town, as if to spare the sensitivities of those who did not want to be reminded of the existence of need, illness and death.

Entering the courtyard of the hospice, the first person Cadfael saw was Brother Oswin, coming out to the porch to welcome him in his usual exuberant good mood. He had grown into his office admirably, Cadfael admitted, turning into a surprisingly good caretaker, after his first time as a well-meaning but clumsy helper in the herb-garden. Truth be told, those large, helpful hands served better in lifting and poulticing and bandaging and restraining the patients than in the delicate work of rolling pills or filling small vials and flasks.

Greeting Cadfael with honest joy – he was always glad to see his former mentor, which happened every second or third week – Brother Oswin led him directly to the medicine cupboard. They re-checked the remedies still there and filled up the shelves with everything that was needed, before turning the key upon its secrets again, lest some of the inmates came to the idea of helping themselves to something they believed they would need; then they crossed the hall to get back to the yard.

Some of the unfortunate denizens – the ones truly plagued by the horrible illness that had no known cure, not even among the Saracen healers who were much more knowledgeable in medicine than anyone in the Christian lands could ever hope to become – were too infirm to move around on their own. These poor souls lay or sat in the hall, where, despite the still pleasantly warm autumn weather, a fire was kept burning, for the most advanced cases were constantly shivering, not so much from the cold as from that terrible weakness which was the surest sign that the end was close. Those pitiful wretches, Cadfael knew, would never leave this place, unless carried into the churchyard for burial. But at least they would die in relative peace, surrounded by the cheerful care of Brother Oswin, who would make them laugh in their last hour. Oswin was such a friendly, good-natured fellow, never out of temper even with the most difficult and ungrateful of his patients. When it came down to the basic things of true importance, who could have hoped for a better end?

Not all the inmates were suffering from true leprosy, though. Many of them simply had festering wounds, broken bones that had not healed properly and had left them with a lasting problem, or just an outbreak of sores, caused by various infections, due to poverty, the lack of proper food, or filthy dwelling places. It was never easy to be poor, not even in good times; even less so in a country that had been torn apart by kinstrife for so long. In such times, when so many had lost their meagre belongings through the constant warfare of the rich and the powerful, people tended to be less generous to the even more unfortunate ones than in times of peace and prosperity. It was a sad thing, but such was the nature of men.

Some of those with the more mundane illnesses were already on the mend, though, and even willing to help out with the small chores within and around the hospice. Cadfael could see a dozen or so of them out in the orchard, gleaning the latest of the harvest.

“They do help where they can,” said Brother Oswin, following the direction of Cadfael’s look. “In truth, most of them are glad to have something to do… to be useful. They are good folk, mostly. It is not always their fault that they have ended up in such foul state.”

“No,” Cadfael agreed. “If only those with power could understand what consequences their greed and constant warfare have for those who have nothing to do with their grievances, perhaps they would consider their next step more carefully. Or not,” he added in sorrow, for he had come to learn the ways of men’s hearts all too well, both during his years out in the world and in those within the cloister. “The old Greeks believed that mankind was grown from the teeth of a dragon, sown into the fertile ground, and sometimes I truly tend to believe it.”

He fell silent for a moment, seeing with almost painful clarity before his inner eye Arianna, the Greek boat-girl, who had taught him that particular legend almost a lifetime ago. How she had stood in her boat, skirts kilted above the knee, her short, dark hair a cloud of loose curls around her laughing face, leaning on her long oar and calling across the water to him. He wondered briefly what might have become of her; if she was still alive, a wrinkled old crone somewhere in a fisherman’s cottage, or had got lost in the turmoil of war, trade and other perils that haunted the lands around the Midland Sea.

He shook his head to free himself of such speculations. They led nowhere. She belonged to his past; to a life he had left behind a long time ago. There was no use pondering over things beyond his reach, even if with advanced age the memories became something to cherish. He had a life and duties here and now, and the Arianna he had once known was no longer – just like his own youth.

“Well,” he said to Brother Oswin soberly, “since it is not in our power to bring the great and the rich to reason, at least we do what we can for those who suffer from the consequences of their lack of care. I wish we could do more, but what we can, we do with all our heart. Take care, Oswin, and should you run out of remedies against all expectations, I have left instructions with Brother Edmund. He might not be a physician, but he is a trained healer who has learned a great deal about illnesses and medication during his long years in the infirmary. I am reasonably certain that between the two of you, you will manage whatever might happen in my absence.”

Brother Oswin nodded in cheerful self-confidence. He might not have the finer skills when it came to _fashioning_ the little pills and lozenges, but he was competent enough to _administer_ whatever medicines might be needed, and with Brother Edmund’s vast experience to lean on, he did not expect any serious problems.

“How long, do you think, will you be gone?” he asked, more out of curiosity than concern.

“I am not sure,” admitted Cadfael. “Bishop de Clinton wants to visit the new priory in Farewell after the funeral; it might be a week or two… or more. I have taken precautions, in case it should take longer.”

“Worry not,” said Brother Oswin cheerfully. “You will find everything in the best order upon your return.”

Cadfael thought of his current assistant in the herbarium, Brother Winfrid, a hefty, blue-eyed young giant, who – despite his size – proved surprisingly deft and delicate in handling the precious glass vessels and brittle dried herbs, and hoped fervently that it would be so. Brother Winfrid was careful and eager to learn, but new to the task and therefore lacked experience. He would do well if only confronted with the daily tasks, but he was in no way capable of facing a crisis alone yet.

Sometimes Cadfael missed Brother Mark fiercely. Even if his loss meant the church would gain an excellent priest one day.

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
He had missed _None_ due to his visit to Saint Giles but got back to the abbey just in time for _Collations_ , after which he returned to his herb garden to give Brother Winfrid his final instructions and to prepare some medicines that could be kept longer and might be demanded during his absence. They worked all afternoon in companionable silence, only pausing to attend _Vespers_ , until, about an hour before _Compline_ , Hugh Beringar came to see him.

Cadfael was weeding one of the herb beds – for some reason, weeds appeared to be able and willing to grow in just about any weather, unlike the more useful plants, which seemed unjust sometimes but could not be changed – when he heard the familiar, springy steps on the gravel. He smiled in delight, always glad to see his young friend, and sat back on his heels to watch Hugh’s approach.

Seeing him on his knees again – a sight that had become increasingly familiar in the five years since they had known each other – Hugh grinned broadly.

“Mediating for absolution for my sins?” he asked teasingly.

“And for my own,” replied Cadfael with an exaggerated sigh. “I have it on good authority that both cases require a great deal of work and prayer. Fortunately, we have Saint Winifred to watch over us, or else I would be truly concerned.”

They both laughed, and as so often before, Hugh gave him a hand to help him rise; a gesture that, Cadfael admitted ruefully, was becoming more needful and more appreciated with each passing year. He was still in good strength for a man of his age – working in the garden took care of that, but he was not a young man any longer as his aching joints mercilessly reminded him from time to time.

“And what are you doing here?” he asked. “I thought you had returned to the north after the recent excitement with the Lythwoods and Bishop de Clinton’s visit.”

“I have,” replied Hugh, “but I found everything in the best of order in my own lands – that is why I keep such a capable steward, you see – and as I left Aline and Giles in town, I thought it better to return to them. Which was the right decision, it seems, as now I can listen to all the fresh gossip in peace while I have a drink with you – if you have one to offer to a thirsty man, that is.”

“When did I _not_ have one for you?” said Cadfael with a content smile. “There is still some of my own wine in the workshop.”

“The same we had when the venerable Canon Gerbert fell over the abbey like the wrath of God?” asked Hugh. “Bring it forth; as I remember, it was quite young but more than fit to drink, as always.”

Cadfael shook his head tolerantly but brought a jug of that wine as asked, and they sat down together on the bench against the north wall of the garden, which was their favourite place, to discuss the recent news of church, kingdom and family.

Little of that news could be considered joyous, though. The long, fruitless struggle between King Stephen and the Empress Maud was still going on; both sides were still trying to win the support of Earl Ranulf of Chester, who was still trying to play them both against each other, while secretly building his own private little kingdom on the Welsh border. Currently, he seemed more in favour of the Empress and was still keeping Lincoln Castle in Stephen’s spite. Fortunately for the king, he also had an ongoing quarrel with Owain Gwynedd, the king of Wales in all but title, and that still kept him at bay. Hugh, whose lands were close to the Welsh border, was particularly grateful for that, but one could not know how long the truce would hold.

Unless Ranulf decided to defect to Stephen, of course, which – knowing his shifting loyalties – was not entirely out of the question. Not even knowing his long-held grievance against the king over the loss of his lands in Northumbria to King David of Scotland.

“I wish I knew more about the whereabouts and intentions of Owain Gwynedd; especially how big a threat he might prove to Ranulf,” Hugh added thoughtfully. “As long as he feels properly threatened by Owain, Ranulf will be more willing to cooperate – until Stephen had dealt with Essex, which is the bigger threat at the moment.”

Cadfael thought about that for a moment. Then he nodded regretfully. “No peace to hope for in the near future, then, is there?” he asked.

“It does not seem so,” admitted Hugh. “And what is new with the church?”

Cadfael shrugged. “Much the same, I fear. Power struggles between Bishop Henry of Winchester and Archbishop Theobald, as usual. More signs of that unfortunate tendency of seeing heresy in every harmless attempt of a man seeking his own answers… the same thing we have seen from Canon Gerbert little more than a month ago.”

“It seems to spread like wildfire, that sort of thinking,” said Hugo, concerned. “I do not like it. It can lead to bad things if no-one tries to stop it. To very bad things. As if we would not have enough worries with this war for the throne going on for so long.”

“Too long,” said Cadfael grimly. “We can call ourselves fortunate to have bishops like Roger de Clinton still. He is of a breed that has become rare in these days… one of the last few. We could use more of his kind.”

“He is an honest and intelligent man,” Hugh agreed. “Travelling in his company will, no doubt, prove… inspiring. I expect you to come to us and bring me all the gossip upon your return.”

“With God’s help, I will,” said Cadfael with an indulgent smile. “Right now, I must take my leave from you, though. I have already taken some liberties with _None_ today; it would do me no good to miss _Compline_ as well. Prior Robert has had a suspicious eye on me lately.”

“I have no worries about you,” laughed Hugh. “You have beaten stronger opponents in your time.”

Cadfael shook his head. “I am an old man, Hugh. I do not wish for any more confrontations. I have come to the cloister for the peace and the quiet within its walls – alas that I find it lacking those very qualities all too often.”

“Someone who is able and willing to ride across the whole diocese on a whim of his heart is not an old man,” said Hugh, still laughing.

And Cadfael, despite his sometimes rebellious joints, had to admit that _that_ was indeed very true. He _was_ glad to get out from time to time – just as glad as he would be upon his return.

He took his leave from Hugh and went to attend _Compline_ , with mild excitement in his still-adventurous heart. He was looking forward to travelling in the elated company of his abbot and the bishop of Lichfield, to meeting the resolute Sister Magdalen again and to seeing how the priory of Farewell had grown since his visit there. At his age, revisiting well-known places did have its attractions.


	2. The Invitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brother Adrianus is an original character of mine, based on a Benedictine monk I used to know in real life.
> 
> Bishop de Clinton did, indeed, take the cross in 1147 and died in Antioch a year later. The founding of Shrewsbury Abbey by Roger de Montgomery and that of the Priory of Farewell are historic facts. There is no proof of the existence of the cell at Godric’s Ford, though – at least I could find none.

**CHAPTER TWO - THE JOURNEY TO GODRIC'S FORD**

In the next morning, Abbot Radulfus and his escort set off right after _Prime_. As they were about to travel in the august company of Bishop de Clinton, who would have made an able knight as much as he made a worthy bishop, they were riding horses instead of mules, which perhaps would have suited humble monks better. That would have suited some of them better stood without question.

They offered an interesting sight, that much was certain. Abbot Radulfus, a tall, spare, sinewy man beyond sixty, with weathered features and shrewd blue eyes, rode his mount with the ease of a soldier rather than that of a monk. Brother Vitalis, a man of letters and numbers yet not one of physical efforts, sat slumped in the saddle like a sack, yet safely enough; he was used to travelling with his abbot, after all. He might not like it, he might have preferred a mule, but he would not be bothered all too badly.

Brother Adrianus, on the other hand, a young priest in his early thirties, short-sighted and balding beyond the tonsure worn by all members of the clergy, seemed less than self-confident. A tall, big-boned, long-limbed fellow of Flemish origins, he seemed to be perpetually stuck in that awkward phase of adolescence when young boys appear to be uncertain what to do with their sudden spurt of growth… and that made it not easier for him to control his mount, either. In truth, it was somewhat amusing to watch him struggle with the mild-mannered beast.

Cadfael slipped back into the stance of the mounted soldier with practiced ease. With so much ease, in fact, that it almost frightened him. After more than twenty years in the cloister, the crusader was apparently still part of him.

He wondered whether it was a transgression against the Holy Rule and his vow of stability. In the eyes of Prior Robert and Brother Jerome most likely. In the eyes of God – he was not so certain. After all, his past had shaped the man that he was now, and the divine grace shown him so often and so unexpectedly _did_ allow the tentative conclusion that God was, maybe, not all too disappointed with him.  
  
That, or Saint Winifred never tired of speak in favour of a fellow Welshman, he thought humbly.

He exchanged a knowing look with Brother Conradin, the builder of the abbey: a grizzled, stocky monk well in his fifties and robust like a bull, whom few would expect to have a sharp mind and be as good with numbers as he was. Although he had been a child oblate and spent his entire life in the cloister – first in Saez, before brought over by Roger de Montgomery, the newly appointed Earl of Shrewsbury, to supervise the building of the abbey the earl had founded some years earlier – Conradin, just like Cadfael, greatly enjoyed the occasional sojourn from his home abbey. As his skills were widely sought after, the abbey did lend him from time to time to other Benedictine houses, thus journeys on horseback – even long ones – were nothing new for him.

They rode along the Foregate, much the same way that he had gone on the previous day, rounded the corner of the precinct wall, by the still green, open field of the horse-fair, and continued along the highroad to the bishop’s house, where they were supposed to join Roger de Clinton and his escort. Someone must have been looking out for them, as the bishop was just mounting his tall roan horse upon their arrival. In the courtyard, several other horses were waiting, either ridden by servants or led on bridle, ready to set off.

This was only the fourth time that Cadfael saw Bishop de Clinton, but he was every bit as impressed as at the first time. He knew that Roger de Clinton was approaching sixty, fourteen of which years he had borne his office, yet he seemed to have the vigour of a man half his age. He ore plain riding clothes, wearing dark chausses and a cottee and well-made riding boots, but nothing that would hint of his importance by way of adornments or jewellery. Yet even so, his authority and competence were obvious – he did not _need_ to be pretentious, not with that natural born power he carried within.

His strong-featured, square face, with those keen grey eyes that summed up everyone with one fleeting glance and missed nothing, and a thin, aquiline nose, would have served a high-born Norman warlord just as well. A tall, erect man he was, with a commanding presence; had he chosen the battlefield instead of the church, his soldiers would have followed him unwaveringly through the vale of Death itself.

The bishop greeted Abbot Radulfus and his entourage in the amiable manner of a man who did not need to press his authority upon others, for that authority was unquestioned and natural to him. Some introductions were made, although most of them already knew Deacon Serlo, a meek little fellow in his forties, with a soft, round face that became rosier even with pleasure over the abbot’s friendly greeting, and a thing, greying ring of hair, getting even thinner here and there due to increasing baldness. Now, in the company of his much-admired bishop, he seemed a great deal happier and more secure about himself than he had been a month or so earlier in the forbidding presence of Canon Gilbert… not that anyone would blame him for it. The bishop’s chaplain, with whom Serlo was keeping company, seemed much easier to get along with.

But it was the other deacon the sight of whom made Cadfael’s heart jump in joyful recognition: a Benedictine like himself, a little man of slender bones and lean but wiry flesh, with a straw-coloured ring of spiky, cropped hair and a pair of fine, clear grey eyes in his oval, beardless face. He still looked like a sixteen-year-old in his heavy black habit, but for the direct, mature look of his eyes that were shining with joy at the moment. Brother Mark, once of Shrewsbury Abbey, now the youngest deacon of the bishop’s household and on his way to become a priest, which had been his greatest desire from the age of eighteen on, beamed with delight at his former superior… but even more so at Cadfael, whose assistant among the herbs and medicines he had been for two fondly remembered years.

With all the proper greetings done, the bishop’s escort mounted as well, and the mixed group of clergy, monks, servants and grooms set off without further delay to make it to the nunnery at Godric’s Ford in time. Unlike Brother Adrianus, who still seemed to be mortified by his meek horse, Mark rode the fine, tall gelding provided by the bishop’s stable with practiced ease. After all, he had grown up with farm horses, labouring like a slave for his uncle who had still begrudged him what little food he needed and sent him to the cloister at the age of sixteen – in hindsight the best thing that could have happened to him, as Mark humbly admitted himself. He had found there his true vocation and a happiness he would never know otherwise. He still rode in farm fashion, which was inelegant but durable, just as Cadfael rode in soldier fashion, neither giving it a conscious thought.

They stayed a little behind, allowing abbot, bishop and their escort a respectful lead, which enabled them to talk among themselves without being overheard. After having discussed small, personal matters, Cadfael turned the discussion to the task before them.

“We have visited the priory of Farewell with Haluin,” he said thoughtfully, “but I must admit I was a little surprised to learn that Bishop de Clinton would found another nunnery, taking away more sisters from Polesworth, while the cell at Godric’s Ford is still in its early phase.”

Mark, who – like all deacons of the bishop’s household – was better informed in these matters than any outsider, shrugged noncommittally.

“He wanted a new foundation close to his cathedral, and Farewell is only two and a half miles north-west from Lichfield,” he replied. “Originally, it began as a foundation for monks and her kits, endowed with several episcopal estates. The church of St. Mary’s at Farewell was the first grant Bishop de Clinton made the canons and lay brothers there: the site of the church, the land that they assarted, and as much woodland as they could assart yet.”

“That’s a generous grant!” said Cadfael in surprise.

Mark nodded. “And that is not all,” he said. “A holding named Christalleia was granted to them, too, with pannage and pasture rights.”

“How did the house become a nunnery, then?” asked Cadfael, a little confused, for such grants would make a religious house still at its beginning flourish beyond hope.

“I believe the canons did not want to live in such a secluded place,” answered Mark, “and the original hamlet was too big for the three local hermits to take care of. So they requested the grants to be given to the nuns, should they be willing to take over the house. The chapter of Lichfield gave its consent, this the church of St. Mary’s went to the nuns, together with a mill, a wood, pannage, the land between the stream of Christalea and Blackesiche, and with six serfs – formerly the bishop’s tenants – with their lands and services.”

Cadfael eyed his young companion with newborn respect.

You have grown well-versed in the politics within the diocese,” he commented.

Mark gave him that shy yet charming smile he had known so well from the times they had worked together.

“To tell you the truth, ‘tis only so as I have become friends with the bishop’s chaplain. He is a sensible fellow, Hugh is, but he _loves gossip_ , and I am a good listener.”

“I remember,” said Cadfael with a fond smile. The ability and willingness to listen had made Mark such an excellent caretaker of the hospice of St. Giles – something that, despite his improving skills, Brother Oswin still had to learn. It was good to see that Mark had not lost that useful ability – it would serve him well once he had become a priest.

“In any case,” Mark continued with a mischievous twinkle of his eyes, “Hugh wanted to be part of the new foundation badly – perhaps he hoped to secure his position in Lichfield or to become better in the Lord’s eyes, I know not. Thus he asked – with the consent of the canons of Lichfield, of course – all the lands which he had asserted _de bosco_ to be granted to the new priory, and also the land which he held from the bishop at Pipe.”

Cadfael nodded, duly impressed. The grants were copious indeed, showing Bishop de Clinton’s vexed interest in establishing the new Benedictine house firmly and securely, in as short a time as possible. With such steady income – and under Mother Patrice’s resolute leadership – there could be little doubt that the timbre buildings he had seen a couple of months earlier would soon be replaced by solid stone. That was why the assistance of Brother Conradin had been asked for, after all.

There was one more thing, though, that made him wonder, and he used the opportunity to ask, in case it would not present itself in a later time.

“Why the extra horses?” he asked. “Neither Godric’s Ford nor Farewell is so far away that we would need to change mounts along the way.”

Mark lowered his voice, so that the servants and grooms riding at some respectful distance behind them wouldn’t be able to overhear him telling something he was not strictly allowed to tell. He would speak to no one but Cadfael about it, but he knew he could trust his old mentor unconditionally.

“I do not think they are meant for us,” he said. “I k now nothing for certain, but Hugh says that letters from Godric’s Ford – _and_ from Polesworth – have been coming and going several times during the last two or three months, and the lord bishop wrote the answers with his own hands, each time. No one knows what they were about, but considering that we are taking extra horses with us…” he shrugged, deliberately not speaking out his suspicion loud.

Nor did he need to do so. Cadfael nodded in understanding immediately. Often had Sister Magdalen described himself as a hawk among doves – which she certainly was – and added that only men could truly value the hawk in her… which was also true. She had a unique gift to make men do her bidding – again, understandable considering her past – and to upset most women greatly. Most of the time, she needed not to worry about upsetting the doves in her little nest. This time, however, it seemed as if someone had proved to be less meek, less of a dove than she had thought.

Someone _had_ to have written the bishop those letters. Someone with more influence in the de Clinton household than Sister Magdalen, who – despite her unquestionable talents – was just a woman of common stock. Cadfael did not know all sisters at Godric’s Ford, but it had to be someone of noble birth, the daughter of a small, penniless nobleman. Someone who might have objections against Sister Magdalen’s quick rise in the ranks and had the confidence to address the bishop directly. No commoner would have dared to do _that_.

Cadfael ruled out Mother Mariana at once. The late prioress had genuinely liked Sister Magdalen and had been grateful that Magdalen had taken over the duties she was no longer fit to fulfil. Besides, it was said that she had been too weak to even do her embroidery when lying in bed; standing up to deal with her correspondence would have been well beyond her strength.

No, it had to be someone else. Someone of good breed, long enough in the cloister to be considered as Mother Mariana’s successor. Someone who would not like a relatively new addition to the cell – and one with a questionable past – having set before her nose. Someone who, if the number of extra horses was any indication, even had a small but steady following within the convent.

The fact that Polesworth, the mother house of both Farwell and the cell at Godric’s Ford, had also played a part in the discreet, three-way correspondence Mark had spoken of, gave additional fuel to Cadfael’s pondering.

The letters going back and forth between Lichfield and the two convents, the extra horses and Bishop de Clinton’s sudden desire to attend to Mother Mariana’s funeral, right before a visit to Farewell… it all began to make sense. There would be changes, in both houses, and Cadfael was not certain which side would be truly happy about it.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
From the bishop’s house, they followed the road towards south-east, until – half a mile beyond St. Giles – they turned to a smaller road that led them to the south and the west through the Long Forest, riding by the villages Sutton Strange, Beistan and finally Thornbury, before reaching their final destination. The way would have been shorter and more direct had they set off from the abbey, but rank had its privileges, even within the Church. _Especially_ within the Church, where power and position were considered God-given, and so they had to accommodate the bishop.

Cadfael did not truly mind the delay. The weather was still pleasantly war, and he found that is aging bones enjoyed the warmth and the exercise. Besides, the long ride allowed him to think about all that which he had just learned. Brother Mark did not interfere with his musings. The young deacon was, indeed, a very good listener and used from their long acquaintance to wait until Cadfael was ready to discuss the matter with him. He knew the time would come.

Cadfael, in the meantime, remembered having made the same journey – several time, in fact, during the last four years. Each of those journeys had been connected, one way or another, to Sister Magdalen. He thought back to the first time he had seen her – then a middle-aged novice, rosy with good health and plump like a contented housewife, planting out cabbage seedlings in the walled kitchen garden, as if she had spent her entire life there instead of just having arrived a few days previous.

Even back then, he had known that a woman of her vigour and purposeful energy would climb the ranks of the hierarchy in no time. Back then, he had guessed that she would be the superior of the small house at Godric’s Ford within a couple of years; he had given her ten more years to become the Abbess of Polesworth, eventually. She did have the format to achieve all that – or more.

_Well, becoming the Abbess of Polesworth she can forget for a while, perhaps forever_ , he thought regretfully. After all those letters going to and fro between the bishop, Polesworth and the sister with the grudge who must have brought the stone to roll, she could be glad if she was allowed to become the successor of Mother Mariana – which was a shame, as the house would flourish under her competent leadership.

However, if Cadfael wanted to be honest, he had to admit that probably not _everyone_ would flourish under her hand, which was admittedly a little heavy at times. A strong-minded superior was good for the finances of the house and for proper discipline – but not always beneficial for the spiritual growth of the simpler folk. As much as Benedictine nuns valued manual labour and were expected – and used – to expend their energies every bit as much in cultivation as they did in prayer, they were n foot soldiers to be commanded around all the time.

True, they had vowed obedience towards their superiors. But they had spiritual needs as well, and by all due respect for Sister Magdalen’s abilities in all practical things, Cadfael could not imagine her to give the other nuns spiritual guidance.

Especially those who had been in the cloister twice as long – which might be the true reason for grievance, most likely among the older sisters. As much as some of the young novices might have found Sister Magdalen’s ruthless practicality frightening, the grudge must have originated among the older ones. Seniority, after all, had always played a crucial role in a Benedictine convent.

_Seniority_ did not simply mean a person’s actual age. _Seniority_ was based on the length of time a monk or a nun had already spent within his or her convent. To put it simply, should an eighty-year-old bishop suddenly feel the vocation to join a Benedictine house, he would rank lover than a twenty-year-old brother who had entered the convent at the age of sixteen and ad been a tonsured member of the Order for years. In theory, at least; but often enough in reality, too.

So yes, Cadfael _could_ understand why some of the older sisters, perchance faithful members of the convent (or rather of the mother house in Polesworth, as the cell itself was still not a very old one) for ten, twenty or even more years, would oppose to a relatively junior member becoming their superior, all of a sudden. Even if – seen with a practical eye from the outside – said person would be the best possible choice for the office.

It was hard to see something from the outside when one had spent decades within. Decades filled with hard work, prayer and worship, while the newcomer had lived a comfortable life in sin and luxury. Yes, it was more than understandable. Petty, perchance, but understandable; even justified to a certain extent.

When the grange of Godric’s Ford finally appeared before them – a long, low house in a broad clearing, with a small wooden chapel and the walled garden and orchard, just as he remembered, just as he always found it – Cadfael could not quite suppress his inner unrest. The peace of the small nunnery had already been seriously disturbed, and he could only hope that Bishop de Clinton, a man known of his far-sighted wisdom, would know how to restore that endangered peace again, with as little damage to the simple souls involved as possible.

If the extra horses were any indication, the bishop had already thought of a way to solve the problem. Cadfael wondered who would ride those horses when they were to leave Godric’s Ford again.


	3. Interlude - Godric's Ford

**Author’s notes:**  


Sister Eata is an original character and will most likely be a recurring one. She. too, is based on a nun I used to know.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**INTERLUDE – GODRIC’S FORD**

Sister Eata was standing in front of the small wooden chapel of the Benedictine cell at Godric’s Ford, looking towards the walled kitchen garden. She was a stocky woman of middle height, with the gold-flecked, greyish blue eyes of her Saxon grandfather looking out of the oval, pale face – complete with a strong chin and a slightly aquiline nose – of her father, a penniless Norman knight. It would have been a stunning face, with those high cheekbones and small, full rose petal lips, had she had the height and the graceful build that should have gone with it… and that she did _not_ possess. Patrician features aside, her shape revealed the woman of common stock that she was, at least from her mother’s side.

Not that she was disturbed in any way by her own lack of womanly charms – she was not. Unlike most women, she had never desired to get married and raise children. She had been in the world for near thirty years and had seen enough. And yet taking the veil was not the means to escape that fate for her. _Knowledge_ was the thing she had yearned for all her life, and life in a cloister provided her with a never failing source of that. She had been a copyist and an illuminator in the mother house of Polesworth – and a good one – before being sent to the cell at Godric’s Ford to serve there as the percentor… or _cantrix_ , as the office was called in Polesworth and therefore in all its daughter houses.  
  
She was also a self-styled scholar of some sort. Her origins had ensured that she spoke several languages. English she had learned from her mother, French – the _langue d’oui_ – from her father, and Welsh from the servants of the tradesman whose clerk her grandfather had been in Shrewsbury. Old Harald, who loved her more than his grandsons who had shown no interest for letters, had taught her to read and write, and a good bit of Latin and Greek. Arabic, both the language and some of the calligraphy, she had learned from her father’s Saracen slave as a child.

Sadly, those rare talents were not asked for in the small, modest cell at Godric’s Ford. So she was left with the mundane tasks of writing letters for Mother Mariana and serving during office as the lead singer. And when Mother Mariana fell too ill to leave her bed any longer, Sister Eata was assigned to her bedside, to take personal care of her.

She did it heartily. She loved the old prioress with all her heart, and she had had ample experience with the old and the frail, having looked after her ailing grandmother the same way for a year before taking the veil in Polesworth. But she had been growing restless lately – ever since Sister Magdalen had entered the cell and taken it over like a force of nature. Not with her vocation, she still firmly believed that she belonged to this cloistered life, but with the place she had been sent. Not that she would question Sister Magdalen’s good intentions and undeniable talents; but she disliked the other woman’s brusque ambitions and the way Magdalen handled weaker sisters who did not possess the same wit, vigour or experience.

There was poor Sister Alumna, to name just one, the niece of Brother Edmund of Shrewsbury; a meek, quiet girl of barely nineteen who had joined the cell but a year earlier. She was a passable cook and understood enough about working in the garden to be adequate; yet Sister Magdalen sent her to the wash-house all the time, even though she had not the strength needed to deal with the heavy cloth their habits were made of on her own.

The poor girl never complained, of course; that would have been unseeming for someone who had chosen a cloistered life, and she always had the shining example of her uncle Edmund before her eyes. She did not want him to feel ashamed for her. But Sister Eata could no longer watch her growing weaker and more quiet with every passing week, till there would be nothing left just one more novice lost too early. Something had to be done about it – about _her_ – and Sister Eata had seen to it.

Young Sister Osyth, the daughter of a cloth-merchant, also from Shrewsbury, did not fare any better. To tell the truth, she _had_ been a little spoiled in her father’s house previously; still, that did not justify the harsh manner Sister Magdalen treated her. There were gentler ways to break bad habits, without breaking the person having said habits, too.

Sister Eata never desired to become Mother Mariana’s successor. Neither did she mind if Sister Magdalen grabbed the office and held it a life long. But she did mind living in a small, rustic house, out in the wilderness; in a house where her rare skills were wasted, and where an ambitious, ruthless superior cornered her with mundane duties tightly enough to take her the air to breathe.

That, too, was a fact she needed to do something about.

In her own way, Eata was just as ambitious as Magdalen. She had inherited her ambitions from her grandmother, a shoemaker’s daughter who had risen through the ranks, becoming the wife of a respected clerk, and from her grandfather, the samesome Saxon clerk who had infected her with the insatiable hunger for knowledge in early childhood. The small grange at Godric’s Ford was suffocating her. She was desperately homesick after the Abbey of Polesworth, an ancient and venerable house, a place of worship and pilgrimage for three hundred years. She missed the wondrous old church, the arched walkways around the _quadrature_ , the many-voiced singing of the choir… She missed a cloister that was worth to be called one.

But if Sister Magdalen was ambitious and vigorous, Eata was determined – and as the daughter of a Norman knight, however penniless her late father had been, she had _contacts_. Her father had been a faithful vassal of the de Clintons, and as she already was the one to take care of Mother Mariana’s entire correspondence, what could be easier than send the one or other letter of her own to Bishop de Clinton or Polesworth… and to receive the answers unnoticed.

The sisters at Godric’s Ford would perhaps be a little shocked to hear that they not only had lost their prioress but would lose their _cantrix_ as well. When Bishop de Clinton arrived to celebrate Mother Mariana’s last rites, he would announce that he would be taking Sister Eata with him to the recently founded Priory of Farewell – and a handful of other sisters who had suffered from Sister Magdalen’s unofficial reign.

The cell would barely feel their loss – there had been quite a few new postulants in these years – and Farewell, a new house still in the foundation phase, would welcome them. Above all, they would welcome Sister Eata, experienced in both worlds and mature of age and in possession of useful skills. And with Sisters Benedicta and Ursula having received permission to stay with the new priory, she would have two former sisters from Polesworth.

It would almost be like her old cloister again.


	4. A Funeral with Surprises

**Author’s notes:**  


I realize that the Office of the Dead was probably very different in the 12th century. But since I don’t have access to the necessary sources to produce anything more authentic, I chose the way of the coward and simply took something that was, at least, Latin.

Mother Osanna, the Abbess of Polesworth (here only mentioned) is an historic character. Again, old Sister Aleth was inspired by a nun I used to know – may she rest in peace.  
.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER THREE – A FUNERAL WITH SURPRISES**

Bishop de Clinton’s entourage arrived at Godric’s Ford just before _Vespers_. Sister Magdalen assigned young Sister Osyth to lead them to the guest hall and look after their needs, as Sister Osyth was also a great-niece of Mother Mariana, and thus the bishop might be interested in her well-being.

Cadfael had never seen her before. Sister Magdalen had described her as “a plain child, not too bright but willing” when she had taken the veil two years back, and that description still seemed to fit. Only that now the young nun seemed frightened, too. That did not bode well for the future office of Sister Magdalen – unless the girl was easily frightened by nature, which Cadfael thought she was not. But perhaps she was one of those with whom Sister Magdalen had no patience, due to their lack of vigour.  
  
He had no time to think bout the possibilities right then, though, as they were called to join the sisters at _Vespers_ , which were sun according to the Office of the Dead. Yes, sung and not just spoken, despite the small number of the sisters, which was a little surprising – until they had heard the voice of the _cantrix_ for the first time. She sang the upper voice, as expected for the other sisters to follow, but Cadfael could hear in the rich undertones that her actual voice must have been much deeper.

“ _Te decet hymnus, Deus, in Sion_ ,” she sang the ancient hymn of the dead. “ _Et tibi reddetur votum in Jerusalem exaudi orationem meam ad te omnis caro veniet_.”

And the small choir of sisters answered her in a high, floating voice, like the choir of the angels. “ _Requiem aeternam dona defunctis, Domine. Et lux perpetua luceat eis_.“

It was a great gift, having a _cantrix_ with a voice like that in such a modest little house. Some people might even say that she was wasted here – but most people did not know that true worship never depended on the size, power or importance of a religious house.

After _Vespers_ the monastic guests and the bishop were invited along with the sisters to Collations. The readings were of funeral colouring, just as the psalms had been before, and once again, the _cantrix_ was the one to do the reading, her voice dropping several shades deeper – most likely to its natural sound. She read in an easy, educated manner that revealed that she was comfortable with her letters, more so than the average nun, although most of them – with the exception of the lay sisters who laboured outside the cloister – were lettered. Other than that, there was nothing extraordinary in her… nothing that would make her different from any other nun beyond her first youth, as she was probably in her late thirties or beyond.

And yet Cadfael had a vaguely familiar feeling about her… as if he had met her before (which, he was reasonably certain, he had not), or as if she would remind her of someone he used to know. He could not quite put his fingers on it, but the feeling was most definitely there.

She only glanced up from the book once, barely long enough for Cadfael to catch a glimpse of her eyes, greyish blue and flecked with gold under arched eyebrows just a hint thicker than women usually had. _Saxon_ eyes, he realized. The white coif worn under the black veil concealed most of her forehead, but even so, one could see that it was rather low and square – another trait he had seen before, although he could not yet remember where.

A stolen glance at the bishop revealed that Roger de Clinton was also watching the nun with subdued interest… which only made things more interesting. Cadfael decided to learn more about this sister. If needs must be, he would enlist Brother Mark’s help. As the bishop’s deacon, Mark could hope to find out more than a simple brother from Shrewsbury.

After Collations Abbot Radulfus – as the ranking monastic authority present – declared that the funeral office for Mother Mariana would be held immediately after Mass on the morrow, and that he would preside himself. The homily, however, would be delivered by the lord bishop, at his desire.

That made sense. Roger de Clinton had known Mother Mariana’s family all his life. In fact, he had been the one to appoint her as prioress at Godric’s Ford. It was only proper of him to release her into a better life.

“ _Matins_ and _Lauds_ , too, would be sung according to the Office of the Dead,” Radulfus added. “Thus we all would be wise to seek our beds after _Compline_.”

_Wise indeed_ , thought Cadfael, suppressing an involuntary groan, as his meant that _Matins_ and _Lauds_ would be longer than usual. A _lot_ longer. But that was to be expected. The dead were entitled to proper last rites, and the superior of a religious house, after decades of faithful service to God and the convent, even more so than the others. Still, he was grateful for the half-hour rest before _Compline_ , spent in the guest house in rueful indulgence towards his aching bones.

As willing the spirit might be, the flesh was not getting any younger.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The body of Mother Mariana rested in its wooden coffin on a bier before the altar of the small chapel, for everyone to see and to speak farewells quietly in his or her heart. She had become frail and bird-like in the last months of her illness and seemed barely bigger than a child in death. It was strange to see that small, fragile body as the only thing that remained from a long life filled with worship, but at least it had been a good life, doubtlessly valuable in the eyes of God. That should have been comfort enough for those who grieved the loss of her.

The sisters gathered in their appointed place in the choir, as they had always done; as they would always do, as long as the house might stand. Sister Sacristan had already trimmed the candles and returned to her place in the small crowd of black habits, black veils and white coifs. Cadfael saw Sister Magdalena, standing demurely yet confidently in her modest place as one of the still junior members of the convent – a place that would doubtlessly change in a short time – and he discovered the _cantrix_ , too, among the senior sisters, and fairly up in the _seniorate_ at that. She must have been a member of the Order for decades, living modestly among her equals; so modestly that few had ever known of her presence.

Cadfael had the feeling that _that_ , too, would change shortly.

The visitors from Shrewsbury stayed in the back of the chapel, sharing space – what little of it was available – with the few tenants of the house who had come to play their respects to the late prioress. Cadfael recognized but one of them: a big, burly man with a round, open face. It was the miller at Godric’s Ford, by the name of John, who had helped to defend the nunnery against a Welsh raid two years earlier, by opening up all his sluices to revell the waters in the brooks. His efforts, united with those of Sister Magdalen, _had_ saved the house on that day. It was only proper that he would be here, and as one of the pallet bearers.

The small church bell chimed, and Abbot Radulfus entered the chapel, flanked by Bishop de Clinton and Brother Adrianus, the only other priest among them, to celebrate Mass. Once again, the voice of the _cantrix_ soared with the opening hymn, the _Requiem Aeternam_ , and the convent joined in as one.

The texts generally used for the missa pro defunctis, the Mass of the Dead, were much the same as that of the normal Mass with the more joyful parts as the _Gloria in excelsis_ and the _Credo omitted_ , and the long hymn _Dies Irae_ sung right after the _Kyrie eleison_. After the usual psalms and readings of penitential nature delivered by the cantrix, they finally came to the homily, to which Cadfael had been looking forward with great expectations, ever since he had learned that Bishop de Clinton would be the one to speak. The bishop was said to be an excellent rhetor who often used public events to settle disputes, and Cadfael could barely wait to see how he would deal with the small domestic struggle among Mother Mariana’s potential successors.

The homily began innocently enough, with Roger de Clinton remembering Mother Mariana’s faithful service at the foundation of this house, the hardships of a modest beginning, her unwavering trust in God’s grace and her humbly and patiently endured sufferings in the recent years. Then the direction of the speech shifted, barely recognizable, unless someone – like Cadfael himself – had been waiting for a shift to happen.

“In different times, however,” continued Bishop de Clinton, “God sends us different people to lead us and to protect us, and we would do well not to question His omnipotent wisdom. For a house that is divided unto itself cannot prevail, and then all previous struggles would have been in vain. On the other hand,” he added, as if wanting to be just to both sides, “God wants obedience, not unnecessary sacrifice, and He does not want anyone to carry a burden beyond his or her endurance. Remember this, when – after having laid Mother Mariana to her well-earned rest – we will gather in the chapter house to appoint her successor.”

He finished the homily with the usual blessing, and while Mass continued on its prescribed way with the beautiful words of the _Offertorium_ , Cadfael wondered how many of the present had truly understood the hidden message of that masterful speech, and how many, indeed, had need of understanding.

“ _Domine, Jesu Christe, Rex gloriae, libera animas omnium fidelium defunctorum de poenis inferni et de profundo lacu_ ,” the _cantrix_ intoned solemnly.

“ _Libera eas de ore leonis ne absorbeat eas tartarus, ne cadant in obscurum_ ;” the rest of the convent answered, with the brothers from Shrewsbury and the deacons of the bishop’s household joining in whole-heartedly. “ _Sed signifer sanctus Michael repraesentet eas in lucem sanctam, Quam olim Abrahae promisisti et semini eius_.”

When Mass winded down to its end, the three ministering priests descended to the bier, and the sisters formed a file, two by two, after them, strictly according to the ranks of the seniorate, and the _cantrix_ intoned the next hymn, the perhaps most profound prayer to be spared eternal death in damnation.

“ _Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna in die illa tremenda quando coeli movendi sunt et terra_ ,” she sang in her rich, mellow voice, “ _dum veneris judicare saeculum per ignem_.”

And the mixed community of nuns, monks and deacons replied in kind with the time-honoured words, “ _Tremens factus sum ego et timeo, dum discussion venerit atque venture ira: quando coeli movendi sunt et terra_.”

The four tenants, including John Miller, took up the burden and made towards the open chapel door, to carry it in procession to the churchyard, where some of the founder sisters already lay The number of the graves was small, the house being but a few decades old, and a small one to begin with. The grave for Mother Mariana had been dug close to the church wall, as it suited the long-time superior of the small convent, and trestles had already been placed to receive the coffin before it was lowered into the grave. This was the time for the final hymn, the _Lux Aeternum_.

“ _Lux aeterna luceat eis Domine cum sanctis tuis in aeternum: quia pius es_ ,” sang the _cantrix_.

“ _Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine; et lux perpetua luceat eis_ ,” replied the community. “ _Cum sanctis tuis in aeternum: quia pius es_."

The tenants hoisted the coffin, and fitted the slings to lower it into the grave, before they began to shovel earth upon it with dull _thud_ s. When the last prayer was said and the last hymn sung, the procession turned back to the convent house itself. With Mother Mariana’s passing, an era for Godric’s Ford had passed, too, and now measures for its future had to be taken.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Cadfael was surprised when both he and Brother Conradin were asked to attend Chapter. It was… unusual, to say the least, for members of a different house to be present when succession was to be decided. But it was perhaps Bishop de Clinton’s doing, who wanted as many witnesses from within the Order as possible. Deacon Serlo and Brother Mark were attending, too. However, presiding was the bishop himself; it was, after all, his right as the highest clerical authority of the diocese.

“Now that we have done our duty to Mother Mariana who had passed over to a better life, in God’s grace,” he began; "it is time to do our duty to do our duty to the convent that she served so faithfully in all these years. For no one can deny that her service was proper and faithful, or that she always had the well-being of her sisters before her eyes. We intend to find a successor whose service would be at least as beneficial for the house, if perhaps a little different.”

He paused, and the tension in the chapter house became almost like a living thing, hot and heavy, despite the mild early autumn morning. The elder sisters exchanged stolen looks of unhappiness, clearly expecting a decision they would not like, while many of the younger ones seemed to have a hard time to suppress their excitement; Benedictine nuns, just like Benedictine monks, were expected to meet everything life might confront them with a measure of peaceful detachment. _Balance_ was the main pillar of Benedictine life: between joy and sorrow, prayer and labour, obedience and deeds. At the moment, however, only the unreadable face of the _cantrix_ seemed to show that proper detachment from such trivial things as the succession of power. Sister Magdalen’s face, on the other hand, showed stubborn defiance. She probably expected a great outcry, should the choice fall on her person.

“There are times,” continued the bishop, choosing his words carefully, “in which he main concern of a religious house is the spiritual well-being of the sisters – or brothers, for that matter – who live within its walls. Those are good times, in which we can focus on the most important things for which we have chosen to enter a convent: worship and service to God, the Order and the people who require our prayers for their lives to be happier and for their souls to be saved. In those times, we choose an older, experienced brother or sister to lead that house; one with long years spent with prayer and devotion, to lead the others on the spiritual way. There are other times, though; times like the ones in which we are living now, times of great peril from the outside world. In such times, unless we want to turn all brothers and sisters into martyrs, which is not our intention, a more… practical kind of leadership is required, if we want to keep the house as safe as God allows it to be.”

He paused again, watching the tense face of the sisters with shrewd interest. Most of them knew – or at least guessed – what he was about to say, but they were wary enough not to show any personal feelings. That would have been very unwise, regardless of the outcome of this Chapter.

“Sister Magdalen has already proved that she has the wit and the vigour to keep this house and the sisters who live within safe,” continued the bishop. “So, in agreement with the Abbess of Polesworth, who also has a word to speak in this matter, we chose to lay the burdens and responsibilities onto her strong shoulders… for the usual time of probation.”

The faces of the older sisters closed down in resentment, while those of the younger ones – most of them anyway – showed carefully controlled triumph. There could be no doubt that Sister Magdalen had the support of the majority. As for the older sisters, they were used to obedience; they would accept the decision, whether they agreed with it or not. Cadfael secretly admired Sister Magdalen for being able to contain her satisfaction; but again, perhaps her confidence in her own abilities and in the knowledge that men, at least, know to value those abilities, had left no doubt in her that she would be chosen.

“However,” the bishop said, still not quite done with the announcements, “as I have said before, a house that is divided unto itself cannot prevail. Therefore we decided, in agreement with Mother Osanna of Polesworth, to allow those sisters who feel that staying here under the leadership of Sister Magdalen, even if it is only for a probation of the next three years, would not be beneficial for them, to join the new priory of Farewell, Mother Patrice, who is the prioress of that new house, has already voiced her consent to take them in, as the house is quite large, and thus they are in need of more sisters – especially those of some experience in the cloistered life.”

The chapter house became eerily silent, as this was an unusual decision – and one not without consequences, possibly dire ones. For a moment something akin anger fluttered across Sister Magdalen’s rosy face. She was a shrewd woman who could very well understand what a pyrrhic victory she had achieved. She might be given the office she had been aspired for since entering the convent, but to what price? The cell at Godric’s Ford was a small one. If too many sisters chose to leave, it could very well bring about its untimely end.

_That_ would have been a shame, after all those years. But such things were known to happen sometimes, and apparently, Sister Magdalen had made more enemies within the convent than expected.

Bishop the Clinton now turned to the _cantrix_ who had not given any sign of her feelings about the whole affair so far, addressing her directly.

“Sister Eata,” he said. “Can you name us the sisters who wish to leave this house and move to Farewell?”

She nodded, leaving no doubt that she had been the driving force behind this whole thing – and apparently not regretting it at all.

“Yes, my lord bishop,” she answered with an easy familiarity that revealed that the two of them had known each other for a long time. “Aside from myself, Sisters Alumna and Osyth, as well as old Sister Aleth. She may not be the youngest, yet she feels young enough in spirit to make the journey to Farewell with us, where she can be with our former sisters from Polesworth again and serve the convent as a cook, which is what she does best.”

That seemed to shock the convent quite a bit, as Sister Aleth was about seventy and fairly deaf at that. No one suspected that she would be discontent with Sister Magdalen’s unofficial rule. For her to choose to move to different house… there mist have been very sound reasons.

Reasons that Cadfael found were worth investigating, should he find the opportunity to do so.


	5. Revelations

**CHAPTER FOUR – REVELATIONS**

When they left Godric’s Ford in the next morning, there seemed to lie an invisible cloud of gloom over the little cell. Morning Mass had been a quiet affair, with the older sisters staring at the floor of the _stallums_ under their feet with closed-up faces, and even the earlier triumph of the young supporters of Sister Magdalen seemed to have been dampened considerably.

Losing four sisters at the same time was a hard blow for such a small house. ‘Twas unusually rebellious of them that they would rather leave than accept Sister Magdalen’s reign, and it was almost unheard-of that the bishop would give his consent. Some of those who stayed – particularly the younger ones – had even gone as far as giving Sister Eata unfriendly, accusatory glares, as it was clear now that she had been the driving force behind this little monastic insurrection.

“Of course, she would probably never have succeeded, at least not as thoroughly as she did, had Bishop de Clinton not wished to strengthen the numbers of the priory in Farewell so much,” commented Sister Magdalen, who had found the chance to have a private word with Cadfael before the monks would leave. “But things being what they are, her request did find the open ears that she needed. I am surprised that the bishop and Mother Osanna had made me prioress in the first place. Sister Eata is known to have had the ear of the Abbess for a long time.”

“I cannot know what in those letters of hers stood, of course,” replied Cadfael placidly. “But I know Bishop de Clinton to be an intelligent man who likes to plan well in advance. I think he saw how the cell has flourished under your leadership, unofficial though it might have been ‘til yestereve. He would want Godric’s Ford to remain in good hands and keep flourishing.”

“Which he had not made easy for me, with taking four sisters at once for my convent, two among them experienced and doing important work,” she returned tartly.

“Perhaps so,” agreed Cadfael. “But you do have the strength to prevail nonetheless. Perhaps that is part of the problem: you have too much strength… and too little patience for those who are less formidable. The weak can take offence on that sometimes, and how can you blame them for that? All they can see is that – no matter what they do, no matter how hard they try – they are found lacking. And embitterment is known to be the breeding ground of a great deal of misfortune.”  
  
“I would not call Sister Eata particularly weak,” said Sister Magdalen. Cadfael nodded.

“And you would be right. _She_ is not weak. She is the daughter of a Norman knight, I hear, and had she been born into a man’s body, she perchance would have become one herself. And while being under the restrictions of a woman’s status might limit her chances, it surely would not limit her ambitions.”

Sister Magdalen snorted. “Ambitions? What ambitions? All she would do in her spare time was retreating into the _scriptorium_ and copying some arcane old texts.”

“Well, she used to be a copyist and an illuminator back in Polesworth, or so Brother Mark tells me,” said Cadfael with a shrug. “Those are useful skills, but one needs practice to keep them from fading.”

“Godric’s Ford does not _need_ an illuminator,” declared Sister Magdalen dismissively. “And I know my letters well enough to take care of my own correspondence, so I do not need a copyist, either.”

“But Farewell most likely does,” pointed out Cadfael. “According to Brother Mark, the bishop wants it to become a large and important house one day. Copying books is a trade well-suited for larger convents, where they have a number of copyists, illuminators and book-binders. And there is no doubt that the liturgy would benefit from a gift like Sister Eata’s voice. Our precentor, Brother Ambrose, would give an arm to hear her sing.”

“You think she had the agenda of becoming prioress here?” asked Sister Magdalen. “That she thought the office would be her due, because of her special talents?”

Cadfael shrugged again. “I do not know her, nor have I ever spoken to her; but somehow I doubt it. She is not the kind of person who would wish to reign over others… her ambitions lie elsewhere, I suppose. She does, however, strike me as someone with a strong respect for things being done in a certain way; for proper order. And your rising to the office seems to insult her sense of order, for some reason.”

“For _some_ reason?” echoed Sister Magdalen. “She could not bear that I took things into my own hands, while the whole convent was nothing but a flock of frightened, helpless hens.”

Cadfael gave her a look full of pity. She was such a shrewd, capable one, and yet she did not seem to understand that sometimes one had to be… well, understanding towards the weakness of others. That ruthless ambitions sometimes made one less than well-favoured in a community that consisted of gentler souls.

“My dear Sister Magdalen,” she said. “You are a strong, determined woman, and I have no doubt that Godric’s Ford will benefit from your leadership greatly. The _house_ will flourish. If you are not willing to understand how your sisters think – and let me tell you that the Rules do support their way of thinking – then I doubt very much that the _inhabitants_ of the house would benefit from it, too.”

“I saved their lives, have I not, when your landsmen attacked the convent a couple of years ago,” reminded him Sister Magdalen. Cadfael nodded.

“That you did. But if you keep treating them as you do, in the end you shall destroy their souls – and in the long run, these four sisters will not be the only ones to leave.”

As much as Sister Magdalen tried to find an answer to that, she failed. Cadfael shook his head in pity and took his leave from her, as the bishop’s party was now readying themselves to continue the journey.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
It was quite a large party that set off from Godric’s Ford that morning, with the addition of the four nuns, who were a sight to behold on horseback. The two young sisters, Osyth and Alumna, seemed every bit as uncomfortable in the saddle as Brother Adrianus had been… perchance even a little frightened. Old Sister Aleth, clearly a farmer’s daughter, rode in the same graceless yet certain manner as Brother Mark, and seemed to enjoy herself thoroughly, if her beatific smile was any indication.

Sister Eata, however, rode with the ease of someone used to the saddle from early childhood on. Her touch on the rein was light, her seat in the saddle erect and gracious. _Imagine a falcon sitting on her arm, and her clad in silks and leathers instead of rough wool, and she could be mistaken for a noble lady on a hunting trip_ , thought Cadfael. _The daughter of a knight, indeed, and a worthy one. ‘Tis almost a shame that she was not born a son. She would look splendidly in armour_.

She was riding in the middle of her sisters, sharing them around herself like a hen would her chickens, and they seemed to seek out her closeness all the time. ‘Twas understandable, truly. After all those years within the predictable safety of the convent walls, they were now tossed into the outside world again – into a world to the ways of which they were no longer used. Even if it was only temporary, it must have been a frightening perspective for them.

For them… but not for Sister Eata, apparently. Cadfael guessed that – like himself – she was one of those who had come to cloistered life later on. Only a certain amount of experience in the dealings with secular life could give a nun such easy confidence amid a travelling group of practically unknown men. Sure, she had probably known Bishop de Clinton for a long time, but she did not hesitate to address any-one else if she had to.

Cadfael had been most desirous to speak with this enigmatic nun, who had the strength to face down Sister Margaret and deal her a defeat in her own game; that was no small feat. But he could not just approach her out of nowhere – that would have been unseeming for them both. Monastic life had its rules, even outside the cloister walls, and while Sister Eata perchance could afford to break some of those rules, Cadfael could not. Not outside his usual domain, not before the eyes of his abbot and the bishop. So he had waited patiently for the right opportunity to offer itself.

The chance had not come ‘til they reached Chenet, a small settling some thirty miles due east of Shrewsbury, where the bishop intended to allow them a little rest. He could count on being more than welcome in the manor of Chenet, which was in the king’s holding and run by an able, middle-aged steward. Just before reaching the manor, though, it happened that old Sister Aleth’s mare stepped into a mouse hole, stumbled and threw her.

Fortunately, she did not break any bones. But she was badly bruised, and Sister Eata needed some herbs for the poultice she wanted to apply to the old nun’s bruises.

She clearly knew what she needed, and Cadfael readily selected some dried ox-eye and elm-leaves from his full scrip, as well as a small, hand-held stone mortar in which to grind them for the poultice that was meant for lessen the swelling. He also gave the sister a small bottle of birch oil to treat any abrasions with it. Bishop de Clinton decided to rest, at least as long as the old nun’s injuries would be treated; they would see when they could continue their journey afterwards.

They dismounted and rested a little in the manor, the steward and his wife going out of their way to greet and feed them properly. Cadfael chose to help Sister Eata make the poultice, in the hope that he would get the chance to learn more about her.

“I am certain that you will like it in Farewell,” he said conversationally while stirring the poultice in a small, wooden bowl. “’Tis a small house, yet if carries the promise of future greatness. And Mother Patrice is a wise woman who seems to know both strengths and weaknesses of her sisters well.”

That earned him an inquisitive look from those gold-flecked, grey-blue eyes. “You have met her, Brother…?”

“Cadfael,” he supplied the name. “Yes, I was granted an audience a little while ago, and I was impressed by the work that had been done in the short time since she has been there.”

“Mother Patrice is a stout person,” agreed Sister Eata. “Quick of mind and long of experience, if her written messages are any indication.”

“You never met her before?” asked Cadfael.

The nun shook her head. “No; I took the veil in Polesworth, while she came from Coventry – our paths have never crossed. But Mother Osanna had a very good opinion of her; and she is well-favoured by the Lord Bishop, too.”

“So is Sister Magdalen,” pointed out Cadfael. “Yet it seems that you do not share his opinion in that particular case.”

Sister Eata took the small bowl with the poultice from him and spread it onto the bandage laud out before her on the table in a thick layer.

“You are right; I do not,” she agreed, waiting for the mix to cool down a little before applying it. “But not for the reason you might suspect. I never wanted the office myself.”

“Is it her… questionable past then?” asked Cadfael.

“Not her past _per se_ ,” she answered, mixing Latin into her speech with the negligent ease of all true scholars. “Saint Mary Magdalen is said to have had a similar past; yet she regretted and atoned and became the stoutest follower of Our Lord. Had Sister Magdalen shown true remorse and come to the cloister as a rueing sinner, seeking absolution and atonement, I would have been the first to accept her with open arms.”

“But you think she has not?” asked Cadfael.

She gave him a thin, knowing smile. “You are his friend or so they say; surely she confided in you. And so you ought to know, better than any-one else, that she did not come to us because she wanted to come closer to God. She came because the baron whose bed she had warmed was dead and could no longer support her… or protect her from the ill favours of other people.”

She paused, clearly trying to keep her calm, which clearly was not an easy task for her at the moment.

“Twelve years,” she finally said, her voice slightly trembling. “Twelve years have I waited and fought for the right to take the veil. My mother and grandmother would not have it, and my father was dead, thus I could not count on him. I hold my vocation very dear, Brother, and having finally reached my goal is something that I thank God for every new day. To have such a… person dispose over the convent, to treat old, devout sisters who have spent their lives in the service of God and Church like some incompetent servants, is an insult for every nun who has ever taken her vows seriously – and for the proper reasons.”

“Which Sister Magdalen did not?” asked Cadfael mildly.

Not that it would have been new for him. The former Avice of Thorbury, formerly the mistress of the late Huon de Domville, never lied to him about that. Cadfael had kept those things to himself, of course. But clearly, the sisters of Godric’s Ford had figured it out on their own. They were meek and devout, not foolish.

“What she wanted was a _position_ ,” replied Sister Eata darkly. “She wanted a roof above her head, a place where her past could not catch up with her… a small, closed community, where she could get the upper hand easily, as the others do not share her ruthless ambitions. It seems, she has chosen well, does it?” she added with a bitter smile. “In these dark days, someone of her nature can be useful; necessary, even. Her so-called vocation is still nothing but a lie, though… and _I am_ not willing to help her live such a lie.”

“Was that the reason why you asked for a reassignment to Farewell?” asked Cadfael.

“In truth, I asked for leave to return to the mother house, as I was clearly no longer needed in Godric’s Ford,” she answered. “’Tis a fairly common practice, as you surely know yourself. Older, experienced sisters help a new house in its fledgling years; then they are recalled, when the new convent can continue on its own. But the Lord Bishop had other plans for me; and even though I have had enough of new foundations for a lifetime, ‘tis still preferable from watching this… this _mockery_ at Godric’s Ford.”

“You think the other sisters see it as a mockery, too?” wondered Cadfael. Sister Eata shrugged.

“Some of them do, but they are too old – or too frightened – to raise their voices against it,” she said. “Others believe it enough if a convent is ruled as the manor of a well-to-do lord would be; that material safety and flourishing are the most important things. Those will be happy, as Sister Magdalen is certainly capable of providing those things. But it will be a hallow existence; one which I am not willing to share. So, with the Lord Bishop’s leave and his blessing, I shall go to Farewell and try to be useful.”

“With the gift of your voice and your skills, I doubt not that you will,” said Cadfael. “’Tis unusual for a woman to learn calligraphy and illumination, even if she was raised in a convent; which you were apparently not.”

“No indeed,” she replied, “but my grandfather was an accountant and a scribe, the clerk of a wealthy wool-merchant, who liked his letters. And my father has brought a Saracen slave with him from the Crusade; freed him and made him my tutor. And even though they both died when I was but a young girl, that Saracen taught me the love for calligraphy and illumination. I have been fortunate, I suppose.”

“A Saracen slave…” long forgotten memories came to the surface all of a sudden for Cadfael. “I knew you seemed familiar to me for a reason! Your grandfather was an old, bald-headed Saxon man named Harald, was he not? And your grandmother was Mistress Annet, who cooked for us all…”

Sister Eata stared at him in confusion. “I regret it, Brother, but I cannot remember you.”

Cadfael smiled. “How could you? You were a child back then, a merry little girl of barely nine or ten; and I was a young man in my early twenties, working for the same wool-merchant your grandfather worked. I would have all but forgotten you, too, if not for that Saracen slave. He and your father were the ones who woke my curiosity for the Holy Land for the first time. You are the daughter of Stephen de Lyons, are you not?”

“I was born Eata de Lyons, yes,” she replied. “But those days are long gone. I am Sister Eata now, and that is all I ever wanted… well, after I had grown out of the age in which I had planned to disguise myself as a boy, become a knight and go to protect the Holy Land like my father, that is.”

They both smiled a little, lost in fond memories. Then the nun took the prepared bandages and turned to go to the other room, where she intended to treat poor old Sister Aleth. On the doorstep, she looked back for a moment, though.

“You see, Brother, I am not some kind of monster who wanted to take down Godric’s Ford. Nor am I some over-ambitious nun who wanted to become prioress due to my birth or my connections to the Lord Bishop. I am just a simple sister – perchance a somewhat old-fashioned one, admittedly – who wants to live accordingly her calling… and the Rules given us by Saint Benedict.”

With that, she turned again and left.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“So, who exactly was Stephen de Lyons?” asked Brother Mark curiously.

Despite old Sister Aleth’s protests and reassurances that she could continue the journey to Farewell at once, Bishop de Clinton had decided that they would spend the night in the King’s Manor to give her time to rest and recover a little. That meant guest chambers for bishop and abbot, the handmaid’s chamber for the nuns and the hay stables for everyone else. Which was the very place where Cadfael and Mark were sitting now, a bit apart from the softly snoring brothers Conradin and Adrianus. Brother Vitalis got to sleep in the guest chamber with his abbot, as travelling always took its toll on him. There, the two could talk about the recent events.

“He was a vassal of the de Clintons,” explained Cadfael. “A Norman family, with its origins in the South of France, as the name tells. Not an old and much-respected one, though, and most certainly not a wealthy one. I tend to believe that Stephen was not even nobly born, but someone who has made himself a name through his knightly skills.”

“He was not landed?” asked Mark with a frown. “’Tis unusual for a knight.”

Cadfael shrugged. “Harold the clerk told me that he did have some lands, but he gave them little to no care, so he benefited just as little from them. He was an excellent swordsman, but no use in peacetime, as he was a drinker, a womanizer and a gambler. The Crusade was a blessing for him, as in war at least he could excel. As far as I know both he and his Saracen servant fell at the fall of Jerusalem.”

“Still, his lands should have gone to his daughter after his death,” said Mark. “Unless he had a brother, of course.”

“No, to my knowledge he only had a sister,” answered Cadfael. “He did have a bastard, though, a son born out of wedlock, whom he acknowledged as his own, so my guess is that the boy must have inherited after him.”

“’Tis not exactly just to the legitimate daughter,” commented Mark. Cadfael shrugged again.

“Perhaps not; but Sister Eata inherited her grandfather’s house, which was a big, well-built one. It stood near the clothiers’ business, if I am not mistaken. I wonder who has it now.”

“Polesworth, perchance,” guessed Mark. “She might have granted it to her cloister when she took the veil. It usually happens that way.”

“Or she gave it to younger relatives,” said Cadfael. “Harold did have two other grandchildren, two grandsons by his son. He spoke not well of his son and his daughter-in-law, though, and had little love for their children, preferring Eata to them. ‘Tis possible, though, that _Sister_ Eata has granted the house to her cousins after the death of Mistress Annet, who lived there for many years after her husband’s passing.”

“She has not,” Deacon Serlo stepped out of the shadows and sat down next to them. “She offered the house to the Lord Bishop, under the condition to make it a home for penniless young girls who wanted to learn a craft of their own but did not wish to take the veil. Most of them work as weavers or spinstresses for the clothier business, I am told. ‘Tis a most unusual choice, but Eata de Lyons was a headstrong and determined woman who knew exactly what she wanted – or so the Lord Bishop likes to say.”

“It seems that _Sister_ Eata has kept those traits, even after taking the veil,” commented Brother Mark quietly. “To do what she has just done requires a great deal of courage.”

“Perhaps it _was_ courageous,” allowed Cadfael, “but the question is: was it truly necessary?”

“You have spoken to her in some length,” said Mark, smiling. “You tell me.”

“I wish I could,” admitted Cadfael ruefully. “Her reasons are sound, or so they seem. Yet I cannot shake off the suspicion that there is a great deal of pride involved. And pride is not the most proper reason to ask for a reassignment… or move the hearts of others to do the same. Do we not all vow stability? To stay in the cloister we entered, unless we are sent somewhere else?”

“Well, she _is_ being sent somewhere else,” pointed out Mark, still smiling. “Let us hope that in Farewell she will have the chance to learn true humility.”

Cadfael looked at him with almost paternal pride. Mark had come so far from the unhappy waif of barely sixteen years that he had been when brought to the abbey by a negligent uncle who had begrudged him even the meagre meal given for his hard work on the farm. Mark might not have chosen cloistered life of his own will, yet he had found his calling in Shrewsbury, working devoutly first with Cadfael in the herb garden, then in St. Giles, among the poorest of the poor, ‘til he finally could follow the true calling of his heart. He was well on his way to priesthood now, and if there had ever been one worthy, Cadfael was sure Mark would be. He always expected the best from people – and always forgave them when they disappointed him. He has a unique understanding for human weakness, although it did not blind him for seeing what truly dwelt in the human heart.

Cadfael smiled at this amazing creature whom God had seen fit to give into his humble care for a few years. Of all the helpers who had worked with him in the herb garden – and there had been quite a few in those last near-twenty years – Mark had been the most pleasant to work with. He had no doubt that the young deacon would be a joy to have around as a priest one day, too.

“You always see the best in anyone,” said Cadfael fondly.

Mark shrugged and looked down at his feet shyly. “Better than the other way round,” he replied.

“There is some truth in that,” allowed Cadfael; then he looked at his snoring brethren and sighed. “We should go to sleep, too. “We shall have an early morning.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
They rose early in the next morn indeed, for the bishop wanted to make up for the time they had lost. Old Sister Aleth seemed well enough, even though some moves made her wince; but the two younger nuns hurried to her aid admirably, without being asked.

Cadfael watched them with interest. Sister Osyth, great-niece of the late Mother Mariana and a round-faced, vigorous girl with a pleasant smile, seemed content enough with her life. Cadfael wondered why she had chosen to leave Godric’s Ford; then he remembered Sister Magdalen calling her “not too bright”. He had no doubt that she had been called that face to face, too… and while she might be of simple mind indeed, she was not entirely clueless, and must have realized that she was being looked down at. She seemed like someone used to and capable of working hard; she would find her right place in Farewell, more so as a new foundation always required a great deal of hard work.

Cadfael had more concern about Brother Edmund’s niece. He had only met the once serenely curious girl a few times, visiting Edmund in the Infirmary, asking about cloistered life all the time. The contrast to the pale, frightened young nun, who had apparently lost a lot of weight in the year since she had taken the veil, was shocking. She was avoiding everyone’s eyes and startled when adressed directly – things she had _not_ done as a little girl, despite her natural shyness. She must have had a very unpleasant time in Godric’s Ford.

Sister Eata was keeping an eye on her discretely, and intervened smoothly whenever the girl seemed overwhelmed. Watching them, Cadfael began to suspect that perchance it was not pride that had motivated Sister Eata’s actions, after all. Perhaps it was pity.

Watching them more closely, he saw that the hands of the girl had broken out in little pustules, which she occasionally scratched, without realizing what she was doing. In some places the skin on the back of her hands was already wounded.

“That is a bad rush she has on her hands,” he said to Sister Eata quietly. “I know that some get it while carding new fleeces, but this is the worst case I have ever seen.”

The nun nodded. “That is where the poor girl has it from – from carding fleeces. A few of the younger sisters used to work with fleeces for the clothier’s business, and though I pointed out to Sister Magdalen that Sister Alumna should work elsewhere, she would not have it. She said no-one must be treated differently.”

“That is not what the Rules say,” commented Cadfael with a frown.

“No,” agreed Sister Eata. “But Sister Magdalen does have the tendency to interpret the Rules at her own discretion.”

“I have an ointment that works well for this kind of rash,” offered Cadfael. “I often made it for the workers of the Vestiers. If you want, I can show you how to brew it, once we are at Farewell. Hopefully, it will help her – or else the small wounds could be infected and lead to much worse problems.”

“I would be grateful,” answered Sister Eata; then she smiled at the girl encouragingly. “Worry not; we shall heal your hands, and I shall see that you are assigned to a task better suited your skills in Farewell.”

“I do not wish t be any trouble,” whispered Sister Alumna. “I never wanted Uncle Edmund to be ashamed of me. I wanted to be like him… not such a failure of a nun.”

“Child, no-one sees you as a failure,” Cadfael’s heart went out to the poor, tormented girl who only ever wanted to become a nun – well, perhaps she wanted to make her beloved uncle proud, too, but there was nothing wrong with _that_ – but was made to feel wanting, as Sister Eata had said. “We are all different people, with different skills, but we all can find a way to serve, and to serve well. So what if your hands cannot handle wool? I heard that you are good at cooking and gardening. I am certain that Mother Patrice will find you a place where you can excel. And worry not about Edmund; no matter _what_ work you do for the convent, as long as you do it with all your heart, he will always be proud of you. Has he not called you his little angel? I am certain he still sees you that way.”

Sister Eata nodded with emphasis. Alumna still did not dare to look at Cadfael directly, but there was a tiny little smile around her demure mouth, and her pale cheek coloured slightly in an oh-so-faint blush. This was perhaps the first time that she could truly feel something akin hope.

In that moment, Deacon Serlo rode by them astride his scruffy little dun mare.

“Are you ready?” he asked. “The Lord Bishop wants to set off.”

Sister Eata nodded gravely. “We are ready,” she said. “We can leave as soon as we have helped Sister Aleth into the saddle.”

And they did just that, with great gentleness and efficiency. Watching Sister Eata’s competent manner with which she organized the actions of her sisters, Cadfael thought that even though she had not wanted to become prioress of Godric’s Ford – or of any other house indeed – she would make a very fine one nevertheless.


	6. Choices and Chances

I know that Mother Patrice was called the abbess of Farewell in the novel, but that – by all due respect to Ellis Peters – is certainly a mistake. Farewell was a newly-founded priory, not an abbey, and a priory it remained during its whole existence, until it was dissolved in 1526. (Yes, unlike the cell at Godric’s Ford, it’s actually a historic place.) Therefore Mother Patrice could only be a prioress; more so as Farewell was merely a daughter house of Polesworth Abbey at that time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER FIVE – CHOICES AND CHANCES**

What had been a long, laborious journey in the company of a badly crippled Brother Haluin, who had nonetheless insisted on making his pilgrimage on foot during the cold of winter, was now an easy and comfortable ride… for all but poor Sister Aleth, most likely. Yet the old nun was determined not to hinder their progress any longer, and thus they reached the hamlet of Farewell just as the twilight began closing in. Memories of a miraculous reunion and the blessed healing of Haluin's tormented soul resurfaced in Cadfael’s mind when the path brought them to a small, open green patch, flanked by the cottages of the three original hermits who apparently still lived there.

Beyond the cottages the long pale fence of the new priory could be seen, and above it the roof of a small church – the only stone building in the entire cloister, and even that unfinished, if memory served Cadfael well. They rode to the gatehouse – a modest little hut, also made of timber, yet with a stout gate and a grille set in it.

At Bishop de Clinton’s sign Brother Mark dismounted and pulled the bell. It had a pleasant ring to it, sending flying echoes into the distance within, and soon the grille slid open, revealing the fresh, rosy face of the portress. Cadfael recognised her – it was the same cheerful young nun who had invited him and Haluin in the last time. He recognised her high, girlish voice as well, as she beamed at Mark and greeted him with obvious delight.

“Good even, Brother,” he said, “’tis good to have you here at least. We were beginning to worry that you might have run into trouble on your way. We are off the beaten track here, and rumours about footpads have been around for quite some time, I fear.”  
  
“I doubt that they would attack such a large party as ours,” replied Mark amiably. “All the trouble we had was a minor riding accident near Chenet, which held us back for a short while, though not overly so. However, Sister Aleth will need rest to recover from her misfortune.”

“And she will get the chance to do so, as soon as she and the others have met Mother Patrice,” promised the portress. “Wait a minute till I unbar the doors.”

They heard the bolt shot back and the latch of the wicket lifted, and then the door opened wide, and the young nun waved them in with heartfelt welcome, albeit a bit more subdued than last time. It might be due to the presence of the bishop and the abbot; although she did not seem too intimidated by them, which strengthened Cadfael’s earlier suspicion that she might have come from the minor nobility. Poorly endowed as her family might have been, she must have been nobly born, for she treated the bishop with respect, yet not with the deference someone of common birth would have done. Such things were ingrained in people from early childhood on, and not even life in the cloister could change that attitude.

“Sister Ursula has arranged rooms for you in the guest-hall,” she said cheerfully. “She will come for you shortly, if you would please to wait here in the lodge for a moment, while I take our new sisters to Mother Patrice’s lodgings.”

Bishop and abbot conceded, and thus she re-locked the door and off she was, taking the four nuns from Godric’s Ford with her. The men of the party dismounted, too, and a young boy of barely twelve – young enough to be allowed to serve in a nunnery – with a pock-marked face and an unruly mop of dun-coloured hair led them away to the stables.

Barely was he gone, Sister Ursula, the hospitaller, was coming already. She was a tall, thin woman of perhaps fifty, with a finely-lined, serene face, one cheek of which bore the long-healed burn mark of an accident. She must have fallen into boiling water or perhaps milk in her youth, Cadfael thought, as few other things would have left scars like these, and kitchen accidents were known to happen to women all the time. She had pale, wise eyes and an air of resignant amusement about him; clearly a person not easily surprised or shocked.

She greeted Bishop de Clinton with due reverence, but it was obvious that they knew each other… which was not surprising, considering the fact that she was one of the experienced elder sisters the bishop had asked to come to Farewell from Polesworth to instruct the novices. Cadfael remembered her having voiced the wish to stay here with the new convent if offered the chance. Seeing how strongly the bishop felt about this new foundation, Cadfael had no doubt that she would get that offer.

She led them out of the lodge into the narrow outer court where the church lay – a modest building of stone, which Brother Conradin eyed with professional interest. There were still traces of the continuing work: ashlars and timber, cords and scaffolding boards stacked neatly under its walls, but the church itself had clearly been finished since Cadfael’s last visit; even the arched windows of stained glass had been set into place. Primary work was being done on the south range at the cloister right now, where only the lower floor which housed the refectory had been completed last time.

“’Tis good, solid work; more so considering you had only three years to build on the cloister,” judged Brother Conradin. “You shall be building on it for quite some years yet, though.”

“That we shall,” said Sister Ursula in agreement, “and long and hard work it will be. Still, there is something about bringing a new foundation to birth that makes one feel towards it as towards a child of one’s own body,” she gave them a quick smile. “I should know; I have given birth five times and raised two chicks to adulthood before taking the veil, after all.”

“The fence will soon be replaced by a stone wall,” said Bishop de Clinton with a glance at Brother Conradin. “The safety of the sisters is of primary importance. But Mother Patrice will see to it that gradually all wooden buildings are rebuilt, one by one: infirmary, domestic offices, guest-hall and storehouses. I wish this house to flourish.”

“And it will, with the labour and the generous endowment our Lord Bishop has provided us with,” replied Sister Ursula simply. “The cloister must come first; and as we want for nothing that is needful, we hanker after nothing beyond our needs, either. ‘Tis a life we all have chosen willingly and one we rejoice in, for the greater glory of God.”

With that, she led them to a small private court beyond the cloister, on the further side of which the guest-hall stood, close to the pale fence. While built of timber indeed, it was a sturdy building nonetheless, and the small rooms within every bit as simple, yet warm and welcoming as Cadfael had them in memory. Bishop and abbot got their own lodging, of course, but the rest of the party was happy enough to share rooms by two, as each of those had two beds, with a little table in-between, a crucifix on the wall and a prayer-desk below it. What else could they have wished for?

“Mother Patrice asks the Lord Bishop and Father Abbot to dine with her in her private parlour,” said Sister Ursula. “For the others, I will have supper brought here. Use the guest-hall as your domain; our own brothers are always most welcome.”

They thanked her, and she hurried off, lest she would come late for _Vespers_. The party of Shrewsbury chose to pray the early evening _hora_ in private but to join the convent for _Compline_ after supper.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
They had a restful night under the roof of the sisters, interrupted by _Matins_ and _Lauds_ only – but again, that was an interruption they had all been used to for many years. What was more surprising was the fact that they were _all_ invited to attend _Chapter_ with the convent on the morn. That was a rather unusual thing – just as unusual as it had been at Godric’s Ford. But again, here as well as there, that must have been Bishop de Clinton’s doing, who perchance wanted the same witnesses present at both events.

Mother Patrice, whom the bishop had brought from Coventry to be the nurse the new foundation, was every bit as Cadfael had her in memory: a stockily-built woman in her mid-forties, with a broad, russet face and shrewd brown eyes that could take one’s measure in a mere glance and never wavered in their judgement. She sat erect in her uncushioned chair in the centre of the chapter room, her small convent sitting on benches set in a U-shape around her, and those knowing eyes of her never left the faces of the new sisters about to join her house.

As not officially accepted by the convent yet, the four from Godric’s Ford were seated separately. In theory, they should have taken the last places, being newcomers to Farewell, but Cadfael knew from Mark that Bishop de Clinton had negotiated for Sister Aleth and Sister Eata to be incorporated in the _seniorate_ by their actual joining the Order, not by their arrival at Farewell. ‘Twas a bit unusual, for sure, but both convents were daughter houses of Polesworth, and thus one could bend the Rule a bit. Besides, Farewell needed experienced sisters, which these two doubtlessly were, and setting them behind green novices would not have been wholesome for the convent. As Sisters Alumna and Osyth had taken the veil later than anyone at Farewell – save from the two novices under the protective care of one Sister Theodora, also from Coventry – their places would remain the same in any case.

“I have called this chapter together so that we can consider the requests of several sisters who are desirous to join our house,” began Mother Patrice. “Our Lord Bishop, who is honouring our chapter with his presence, supports the request of the former sisters from the cell at Godric’s Ford; and so does Mother Osanna of Polesworth. Nonetheless, I did not want to make any decision in this matter without asking at least the elder sisters of this convent about their thoughts. Thus I ask you, sisters, to speak your mind and to speak freely.”

There was a long, thoughtful silence, each of the elder sisters hesitant to speak up, more so those who had their doubts about the matter.

“We _do_ need more experienced sisters here,” Sister Augustine, the sub-prioress finally said, “and I am well aware of the fact that the final decision is not in our hands. However, I still find it a dangerous example if sisters are allowed to forego their wow of stability and to wander from house to house as they please. It would make an unstable foundation for any religious house.”

“True enough,” answered Mother Patrice calmly. “We ought to consider the special circumstances of this request, though. Sister Aleth and Sister Eata would long have returned to Polesworth, if not for Mother Mariana’s illness that made them sorely needed at Godric’s Ford. As far as I can see, and the Lord Bishop agrees with me in this, they are no longer needed there, and Mother Osanna has agreed to dispatch them to Farewell instead of calling them back to the mother house.”

“I know that, Reverend Mother,” said the sub-prioress. “And yet I find it a dangerous example. For this move has been initiated by the sisters themselves, not by their superiors.”

“Your objection is noted, Sister,” Mother Patrice looked at the other elders. “What do you say?”

“I am in support of their acceptance,” replied Sister Theodora. “As I see it, the younger ones have suffered damage to their souls; just like Sister Eadburga had, who fled the cell at Godric’s Ford in despair a year ago and has done penance for six months to be allowed to re-join the Order in this house. She has been nought but an exemplary sister ever since, and fortunate we are to have her among us. I do not know these four, as I have come from a different house, but if those who know them from Polesworth can vouch for them, then I am all for having them here, too.”

All eyes turned to the respected hospitaller and gardener sisters, and after a moment Sister Benedicta, also a late-comer to cloistered life, nodded slowly.

“I vouch for them,” she said. “I have known them for years, and I believe with all my heart that they will be a blessed addition to our convent.”

“I concur,” said Sister Ursula. “They bring the willingness and they bring the skills. What else could we ask for?”

“And yet they have gone against the Rule of obedience,” pointed out Sister Alphonse, the cloister’s infirmarer and herbalist, a small, rotund old nun beyond sixty. “I say, accept them – but they ought to do penance.”

“That sounds like a sensible middle way,” said Mother Patrice, turning to the four from Godric’s Ford. “Are you willing to accept that?”

Old Sister Aleth and the two young nuns looked at Sister Eata, clearly ready to accept whatever decision she was about to make.

“We are,” answered Sister Eata without hesitation. “All I ask is that Sister Aleth be allowed to do her penance at a later time, when her bruised ribs are healed. For she was badly hurt when her horse faltered.”

Mother Patrice nodded. “Our Lord wants obedience, not sacrifice, and that is what we who lead in His name should expect. Sister Aleth will be granted her delay. Term and means of the penance will be considered between Sister Augustine and me. Now that this is decided, let us turn our eye to the other two candidates: daughters of lesser landed lords who desire the entry of their children to the Order. Sister Theodora, if you please…”

“A short time ago, we have received requests to accept into our house two new devotionaries, in God’s time to receive the habit and the veil,” said the mistress of the novices. “The one we have to consider here is form a good local family. Her sire is Geoffrey Peche, lord of two manors at Morhale, and a patron of our house. He offers us his land at Morhale with his man there, as the dowry of his daughter Sara, who wishes to take the veil here, among us.”

“How old is the girl?” asked the prioress.

“A little younger than we usually accept novices since the custom of accepting children as oblates has been abandoned at Polesworth and all of its daughter houses,” replied Sister Theodora, “as she has yet to turn fourteen. Yet Master Peche says that she has been asking about cloistered life since she learned to speak; and the father has finally given in, even though he would have preferred to see her married to a suitable husband.”

“I see,” Mother Patrice looked at the older sisters, one after another. “What do you say, Sisters?”

“Her vocation sounds like a true one,” replied Sister Ursula, “yet I find the girl too young for such an important decision. What if she regrets it, once she outgrows her child-like admiration of cloistered life? What if she realises one day that she has never known life and abandons her vows?”

“That would reflect badly upon our house,” supported her Sister Augustine.

“True,” said Sister Theodora, “but can we refuse her just because she _might_ regret her choice later? Do we have the right to refuse her if Our Lord accepts her?”

The shrewd eyes of the prioress turned to Sister Eata. “What would _you_ say, Sister?”

“It is not my place to tell you what to do,” protested Sister Eata.

Mother Patrice nodded. “You are right; it is not. I would still hear your opinion in this matter, so obey me in this.”

Sister Eata inclined her head gracefully. “As you wish, Reverend Mother. I would take the girl in; not as a full member of the novitiate yet, but as a girl who has shown interest and needs to see the life she believes she wishes to live. Let her stay with the novices for two years, as we would take in a ward; to live our life, without binding herself just yet. If in two years’ time she still wishes to take the veil, then let her take it.”

“That is a sound suggestion,” said Sister Benedicta, ere the sub-prioress, clearly not happy with the idea, could have protested. “In truth, I was about to suggest something similar.”

“It could work,” Sister Ursula agreed, and old Sister Alphonse nodded, too. Mother Patrice looked at the mistress of the novices.

“It is up to you, Sister Theodora. Are you willing to tutor the girl, to groom her for cloistered life, even though she might choose differently in the end?”

Sister Theodora nodded. “I would do so gladly, Reverend Mother. Even if the girl won’t stay after her years of probation, she would benefit from learning her numbers and letters greatly; or perchance even some other useful skills. I say we take her.”

Mother Patrice gave the small circle of older sisters another look. They all seemed in agreement, with the possible exception of the sub-prioress, whose reluctance might have hailed from the source of the suggestion rather than from any doubt about its usefulness.

“Very well,” said the prioress. “Let us try Sister Eata’s way. Is the girl in the house already?”

“She is waiting with her father in the guest hall,” answered Sister Ursula. She was the hospitaller; she knew whom they had in the house.

“Send for the girl,” ordered Mother Patrice. “I shall talk to the father in private later today.”

Sister Edith, the young portress, hurried off, and soon she returned with a bright-faced girl, clad in the modest, yet well-made garb usually worn by the daughters of small landowners.

Cadfael looked at someone so eager for cloistered life at such a young age with interest. The girl was not tall, but softly rounded, looking more mature than her mere fourteen years. She had a round face, framed by soft brown hair, which she wore coiled back on both sides of her face, and dominated by wide-set, wide open eyes, shining with excitement. Her wide brow and resolutely firm chin spoke of an already settled character, despite her youth, but the soft lips, curled into a gentle smile, showed her child-like innocence.

It was an endearing sight indeed, seeing someone so young, so pure and so eager for a life devoted to prayer and labour. Cadfael hoped fervently that the inner light that shone in Sara Peche almost visibly will never be quenched. It was a rare and precious thing, worth being nurtured and protected.

While the prioress asked the girl a few questions – which she answered in a simple, open, yet surprisingly mature manner – Cadfael pondered over her name. Was it possible that this bright child would be related to the late _Baldwin_ Peche, the former locksmith of Shrewsbury? Cadfael knew that the locksmith had been a third son and came to Shrewsbury to learn a craft that could feed him as a young apprentice. So, even though the name was a fairly common one, it _was_ a distinct possibility. Perhaps a brother or a cousin to the girl’s father?

Still, could such innocence and the cold, inquisitive merriment with which the late locksmith had sought after every scandal in town and enjoyed mischief for its own sake – and sometimes even for personal profit – come from the same blood? It seemed unlikely; yet sometimes the same stock produced strangely different offspring.

In the meantime, Mother Patrice finished questioning the girl and told her the conditions under which she would be allowed to stay for a two-year probation. Sara Peche accepted the decision gratefully and returned to her father to the guest hall with shining eyes and a spring in her step that was heartening to see. If nought else, this one had clearly embraced her choice with all her heart. One only had to hope that she would never lose the joy over it.

Now Mother Patrice asked about the other applicant, and in this case Sister Theodora seemed to have some doubts.

“She is one Hiltrude Astley, heiress of Fulke Astley, the lord of Wroxeter Manor,” she explained. “Her father has been eager to marry her to a landed lord and unwilling to wait till her own choice, the young steward of Wroxeter, would finally inherit from a childless uncle.”

Abbot Radulfus nodded. “We can confirm that, Reverend Mother. Fulke Astley has tried to force her into marriage with Richard Ludel, who, at that time, was only six years old and in our charge. Fortunately, the priest who married them turned out a false one and thus the marriage could be undone.”

Mother Patrice frowned. “Have you talked to the girl?” she asked Sister Theodora. “Has she come to us out of her own free will?”

“So she says,” replied Sister Theodora a little doubtfully. “But she does not seem very happy with her choice.”

“Is she old enough to _make_ that choice at all?” asked Sister Augustine. Sister Theodora nodded.

“She is,” she said. “But I fear taking the veil is but the lesser evil for her, preferable to a forced marriage to someone not her own choosing. In truth, I see a stronger chance of _her_ running away one day than with Sara Peche.”

“Bring her to me,” ordered the prioress.

Young Sister Edith hurried off again, but the girl she brought with her this time couldn’t be more different. While not utterly plain, she wasn’t such ha bright, endearing sight as Sara Peche, either. She was very pale, her large, brown eyes guarded, and her mousey brown hair hung in a thick braid over her waist. She probably wasn’t ill-natured, but she did look bitterly resigned and wretched – not the best condition to make a lifelong choice.

Mother Patrice questioned her, too, and she affirmed that she had indeed consented to a life in the cloister. She openly admitted that it would not be her first choice, but that she had come willingly and promised to do her best to become a good sister of the house.

She was released then, and Mother Patrice discussed with the older sisters to some length whether they should take her or not. While the girl was clearly acting under a great deal of duress, she _had_ declared to have come out of her own will, and they couldn’t refuse her without a sound reason. Also, there was Wroxeter Manor to consider, which would have added to the house’s income nicely. Still Mother Patrice seemed unhappy with the case.

“A life devoted to the service of our Lord should not be misused as a means for a land-hungry father to punish his daughter for not wishing to marry _his_ choice,” she said, seeming truly angry fort he first time. Whether her anger was for the girl’s sake or about the disrespect shown towards cloistered life, Cadfael couldn’t tell.

“True,” said Sister Augustine. “There is nothing wrong with providing shelter for those who are burdened by a life in the world beyond endurance, though.”

“Providing shelter and accepting a novice are two different things,” argued Sister Theodora. “I cannot see true vocation in _this_ girl’s choice, be it her own or that of her father.”

“Not all of us choose cloistered life for the same reason,” pointed out Sister Augustine. “some might even choose it for the wrong reason. That does not mean they would not grow into it eventually; or that they won’t lead an exemplary life. God is able to write straight on bent lines, ‘tis said.”

“Mayhap so,” replied Sister Theodora slowly. “But can we take the responsibility for such a choice?”

“We can, and we must,” said Mother Patrice, “for if we don’t accept the girl now, a much harder choice might be forced upon her later. Let us take her as a novice now. Whether she should be allowed to take her vows – and _when_ – we can discuss again in a year’s time.”

After some more arguing, the older sisters gave their consent, and Hiltrude Astley was called back in and told the decision. It didn’t seem to make her any happier, but she did look relieved, at least. Mother Patrice gave her into Sister Theodora’s care, with the instruction _not_ to have her hair cut just yet; and with that, _Chapter_ was closed for the day.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
After having attended to _Prime_ , both nuns and guests broke their fast, and then everyone went about their business. Brother Mark, just like Brother Vitalis and Deacon Serlo, was called to join his bishop and Father Radulfus to the prioress’ parlour, where they would discuss financial matters and the length of the loan of Brother Conradin to Farewell. Brother Adrianus walked over to the village, where he would be in charge of the parish and of St. Mary’s church, aside from being the nuns’ confessor. He was a meek and easily embarrassed one; Cadfael secretly wondered if he truly had the strength to shoulder such a double task. But he was the bishop’s choice, and Roger de Clinton rarely proved wrong in such matters.

Cadfael himself spent the morning in the most inspiring company of Sister Benedicta and old Sister Alphonse, discussing with them healing herbs, their uses and the secrets of their proper growing, while Brother Edmund’s niece, newly assigned to Sister Gardener, listened to them demurely. He realised with surprise that while Sister Alphonse knew nigh to nothing about some outlandish herbs he had brought back from foreign lands, as far as the local herbs were concerned, she was more than his equal. Her little workshop was neat, well-ordered and full with bushels of dried herbs, jars, bottles, clay cups and other things a healer might need. Many of the medicines were her own concoctions, worked out by long years of patient experimenting.

“I used to work for my father, who was a barber-surgeon and a self-made scholar of herb lore,” she explained. “I even was the midwife of our village for a while. But when Father died, people would not allow a woman to do his work on her own; thus I brought my knowledge and my skills to the cloister.”

“The villager’s loss is surely our gain,” said Cadfael placidly. “What about your hermits, though? Are they sensible enough to listen to you? Or are they so obsessed with sainthood that they ignore well-meant advice? Living alone in a cell can make people a little weird at times.”

“Oh, they aren’t so bad,” laughed the old nun. “Although I do wonder sometimes what might have moved Brother Rhodri, the oldest of them, to choose this life. He certainly likes to eat and to talk a great deal more than any respectable hermit ought to.”

“He is harmless,” said Sister Benedicta softy.

“That he is,” agreed Sister Alphonse. “But he is a chattermouth before the Lord, that one is. The two younger ones, though – just the opposite. So meek and humble and ascetic it could drive everyone to distraction.”

Sister Benedicta smiled and shook her head in a forgiving manner.

“They are young,” she said, “and youth tends to make one over-eager about one’s chosen path. They will learn to keep a healthy balance in time.”

Just as she had found it, after freeing herself from a life forced upon her by her own mother, Cadfael knew it.

“You’ve made me curious about these hermits,” he said. “Are they allowed to accept visitors? I would like to meet them.”

Old Sister Alphonse shrugged. “The village folk runs to them often enough to benefit from their assumed wisdom and sainthood,” she replied. “Why should they not be allowed to have a brother of our own Order – and an herbalist at that – visit them? Walk over, Brother, they will be glad to see a fellow Welshman, I suppose; and perhaps they will accept some help with their aches from _you_.”

Cadfael was surprised even more, hearing that, although he did know, of course, that the Welsh church did not tend towards large monasteries. A small, simple cell somewhere in the wilderness, with a single saint occupying it was how they understood cloistered life. But to find one or more of them outside of Wales was a rare thing indeed.

“Are they Welsh, then?” he asked.

“Two of them surely are,” answered Sister Alphonse. “The third one is from England, though I presume he must have some foreign blood in him, for his visage is not like those of the local folk.”

“They are friendly people, all three of them,” said Sister Benedicta. “Go and visit them, Brother; they will be glad to see you.”

“I shall help you put those seedlings safely away for the winter,” decided Cadfael, “and perchance will pay them a visit between _None_ and _Collations_. There is no sufficient need to excuse myself from my prayers.”

“True,” said the former Bertrade de Clary. “Our duty towards God must come first. However, we do have a duty towards our fellow sinners as well, and I do have the feeling that the hermit brothers would he glad for the chance to talk to someone who does not represent any religious authority.”


	7. A Disputed Grant to Farewell

A word to historic authenticity: the hermits (although I rechristened them and made two of them Welsh, which they probably weren’t), as well as the people who made grants to Farewell, really existed once, and the grants themselves are officially recorded. I only moved them back and forth in time a little, so that they could come together for this story. So, Robert the reeve actually made his grant in 1145, and Sara Peche took the veil in 1170… not that this really matters. However, that is the spot where authenticity stops and the events of the story begin..

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER SIX – A DISPUTED GRANT TO FAREWELL**

Sister Benedicta’s enigmatic comment curbed Cadfael’s curiosity so much that he decided to pay the hermits a visit right after _None_. In the hope to learn more about the goings-on within the hamlet from a fellow Welshman, he chose the hermitage of Brother Rhodri, which was the one standing a little apart from the other two, on the left side of the clearing before the new priory.

As it was customary for hermit cells, each of the three was completely independent from the other two, consisting of a small, stoutly-built, low-roofed stone hut, standing in the middle of a little square garden, which was fenced with a low pale. The ground within the small enclosure seemed well-cleaned and planted. Brother Rhodri was apparently fond of gardening and quite good at it.

The door of the hut stood open, and as he couldn’t see the hermit in the garden, Cadfael decided to go in, following the steady gleam of light that shone from within. The room that he entered was small and dim and almost empty but for a pallet bed against the wall, a small table that obviously served as the hermit’s desk, and a bench.  
  
The light that had lured Cadfael in burned in the other room, separated from the first one only by an open doorway. He could see that the back room was a chapel, lit by a fairly large oil lamp, which hung above a stone altar. The altar was unadorned, save from a simple reliquary carved from dark wood standing upon it; and a small, standing cross masterfully wrought of iron atop of the reliquary. Two leather-bound, worn books lay on the single stone step before the altar, ready for use: the Holy Scripture and a breviary.

On the same step, a man was kneeling motionlessly; a short, heavily-built man in a rough black habit, with the cowl tossed back to reveal a short-cropped, thorny tonsure – black, yet generously peppered with grey. Whoever Brother Rhodri might have been, he was not a young man anymore. His ears had still to be fairly good, though, for he heard Cadfael’s quiet footsteps and clambered to his feet to see who had come to see him.

He had a broad Welsh face, framed by an unruly beard that reached to the middle of his chest and had even more grey in the black than his hair, small, twinkling black eyes and a slightly upturned nose, which gave his visage an air of child-like merriment, despite his apparent age. His strong limbs and heavy shoulders revealed that he had worked hard – probably on the fields – all his life.

Seeing Cadfael’s familiar black habit, the hermit’s eyes lit up with joyous recognition.

“Come in, Brother,” he said with a pleasant grin. “Come and tell me what can I do for you?”

“Truthfully, I don’t need you to do aught for me,” replied Cadfael, accepting the invitation readily. “I humbly admit that it was mere curiosity what brought me here. I wanted to see the hermits who have come such a long way from home to serve God in a foreign country.”

“Home, you say?” asked the hermit, even more pleased. “Are you a fellow Welshman, then? I should have known; you have the shape and the bones for it.”

“That I am,” said Cadfael, “though I have been a brother of Shrewsbury Abbey for nigh twenty years by now. But born I was Cadfael ap Meilyr ap Dafydd, a long time ago, or it seems to me on some days, in Gwynedd.”

“Gwynedd, eh?” said the hermit. “I am from Powys, myself, and was once known as Rhodri the Fatherless. But that, too, was a long time ago. For twenty and six summers have I lived in this little cell already – alone for many years, with two younger brothers in the last five of them. But come, let us sit on the bench; we will be more comfortable there. I regret that I have nought to offer you but some bread and a cup of water…”

“There is no need for that,” answered Cadfael, making himself comfortable on the bench. “We just had midday meal brought us to the guest hall, and it has been my experience that the need for food lessens as one gets older. I need nothing but a little company at the moment. ‘Tis a rare thing to find Welsh hermits in foreign lands… and rarer even that I have the chance to speak my mother tongue with someone from home.”

“’Tis the same for me,” admitted the hermit, switching to Welsh happily. “We are not supposed to talk to each other, among brethren, and the people who come to us for advice, or to ask us to pray for them, are usually from the neighbourhood.”

“Do they visit you often?” asked Cadfael, curious to find out whether old Sister Alphonse had been right about the hermits.

Brother Rhodri nodded. “They do. People suffer a great deal in a country torn apart by kin-strife and pillaged by ruthless lords who use the chaos to gather riches for themselves. These are unsettling times for England, and the simple folk have no-one but God to turn to for help.”

“That would explain the generosity people show towards the bishop’s new foundation here,” said Cadfael thoughtfully. “As if they would hope to stay in God’s good graces hat way.”

The hermit nodded again. “That might be so,” he allowed, “and yet the Lord Bishop would do better _not_ to push people so much to support the sisters. They already have enough to keep building that cloister of theirs for a while. And even though they lead a simple life, personally, resentful heirs whose inheritance – for which they have hoped for years – suddenly goes to the nuns, might see that differently.”

Cadfael frowned. He knew that the hunger for land could drive men to detestable deeds, but the thought that some of the grants for Farewell might cut into some rightful heirs’ interests had not yet occurred to him… although it should have, he admitted ruefully.

“Do you know of any-one for certain who would resent his father’s grant to the nunnery?” he asked.

“More than just one,” replied the hermit, “as they come to me to complain all the time. There is the son of Baldwin Peche to begin with: nigh fifteen years older than the girl who’s come to take the veil, with a wife and two sons and a daughter of his own. He is quite unhappy about losing the lands in Morhale, with the serf who is tending to them, and quite loud about his unhappiness.”

“Not surprising, with three children to care for,” murmured Cadfael, “even though those lands are the dowry of his sister.”

“They are,” said the hermit, “but as long as the girl was unmarried, he could use the lands as he pleased and have his profits of it.”

“Which he will now lose if Sara joins the house of Farewell,” Cadfael nodded in understanding, reminding himself to tell Mark these things. Mark then could decide whether the bishop needed to be told as well. “Who else is there?”

“Thomas, the son of the reeve, who has hoped for years to inherit those eight acres of land and the pasture that goes with them, all of which have gone to the sisters but a short time ago,” answered the hermit. “And Hamo de Hammerwich is not happy, either, seeing half of his inheritance going to the priory as well.”

“Of how much land are we speaking?” asked Cadfael.

The hermit shrugged. “Half a hide – but for some it counts very much… more so if that is all they have. The father is one of the de Clinton’s tenants and has held those lands for many years. His son hoped to acquire the same rights by inheritance, in God’s time. That is what usually happens with such lands. But now half of the estate will be held by the sisters in demesne, and only the other half by Haminch’s heir as tenant of the nuns.”

“You are very knowledgeable about all this,” said Cadfael.

“That I am,” replied the hermit, “for our Brother Godric was the one to word the first written contract that was sent to the lord bishop for approval. He has the neatest hand of us all. Neither Haminch nor his son is lettered, and the son did not want one of the sisters to write it. He is bitterly resentful, that one, always suspicious of others robbing him or stealing from him.”

“Which shows clearly that the riches of this world cannot make one truly happy,” said Cadfael.

“Perhaps so,” agreed the hermit. “But not every-one can move into a cell as we have done and hope for alms in hard times. Most people must try to eke out a living in the outside world, which is hard enough. It is in men’s nature that they would be resentful if the means for that – or part of them – are taken from them and given to others.”

“Understandable, even though encouraging greed would do no good to any-one,” answered Cadfael. “Let us hope and pray that the lord bishop’s good intentions won’t cause any unintended harm.”

“Hope is all that we have, cloistered or secular folk alike,” nodded the hermit in agreement; then he glanced though the open door out into the garden, where a slender, black-covered figure was approaching, carrying a tray. “Oh, I see the good sisters have sent our midday meal, too.”

Cadfael frowned, as the newcomer clearly was not one of the servants – or even the lay sisters who would usually be assigned such duties.

“They send the choir sisters to see after you needs? That’s highly irregular; and can lead to unwanted talk, too.”

“Oh, but this isn’t just any choir sister,” replied Brother Rhodri with twinkling eyes. “’Tis Sister Amadea, so forward on the path of sainthood that not even gossip can come close to her, for fear of the fire of heavens coming down to punish them.”

Cadfael did not miss the ironic undertone and eyes the approaching nun with wary interest. She was a tall woman, at least a head taller than him, with a long, plain, austere face of almost oppressing piety, and hazel eyes that seemed to look beyond all earthly needs. She made the impression of ascetic reverence, without actually being thin, her expression benign yet unsmiling. She placed the tray on Brother Rhodri’s small table, inclined her head in a benevolent manner and left again, without as much as a word of greeting.

“She’s taken a vow of silence, for a year,” commented Brother Rhodri, who clearly would never have been able to do the same; he seemed to like the sound of his own voice too much. “Barely six years cloistered, and she already behaves as if she were Saint Catherine of Alexandria. It irks the lay sisters to no end; the poor souls always feel as if she’d look down her nose at them.”

“And? Does she?” asked Cadfael.

“She does,” allowed Brother Rhodri, “but to be fair with her, she looks down on the other sisters the same way. Neither of them is pious enough in her saintly eyes.”

Again, there was that ironic undertone; not quite biting, but not in the holy sister’s favour, either.

“Why would she hold herself above all the others?” wondered Cadfael. “Is she of noble birth?”

That would have explained part of it. Daughters of the aristocracy – especially those of _Norman_ aristocracy – would still see themselves as something better than the average sister.

Brother Rhodri shook his head, grinning. “Oh, no. She’s the daughter of some small trader, or so Sister Waltraut says, and was tirewoman to a lady of the small nobility before the life in that manor would offend her so much that she’d run away and take the veil at Wherwell. When Queen Matilda’s Flemings burned down the house to get to the men of the Empress who’d ensconced themselves there, she fled with the other sisters and came here, as she had kin in Lichfield. Sister Waltraut says she used to be the almoner in Wherwell, but I cannot say if it’s true or not.”

“An office like that would certainly fit her chosen path of sainthood on earth,” agreed Cadfael. Still, he could not quite shake off the unconformable feeling that the intense look of those hazel eyes had awakened in him. It had not been fanatism, not exactly, but it showed a determination that could lead to fanatic actions, given the right circumstances.

He wondered how the self-appointed saint of Farewell might have reacted to the arrival of the semi-renegade sisters of Godric’s Ford. Had she shared their dismay over the quick rise of someone with Sister Magdalen’s past to the office of the prioress? Or had she considered the rebellious sisters violators of the Rule? Either way, Sister Eata and the others would have to tread carefully around her; more so if either Mother Patrice or Sister Augustine were duly impressed by so much sanctity in their midst.

Not Mother Patrice, most likely, though. She was a shrewd, practical-minded, down-to-earth woman, which might have been the reason Bishop de Clinton had selected her to lead the new house. The sub-prioress, on the other hand…

“Can you tell me aught about Sister Augustine?” he asked.

Brother Rhodri nodded. “She’s the widow of a master weaver from Lichfield and used to be a name-worthy embroideress. Their workshop used to make all the liturgical robes and the altar cloths for the lord bishop and his canons. When her husband died, the lord bishop asked her to bring the entire workshop to Farewell, and she came willingly enough, knowing that she’ll be provided here for life. You see, they had no children who could have carried on the business, and that way Farewell gained another means to provide for itself and those depending on the sisters’ charity.”

Cadfael called up the image of a tall, drab woman with a long, pointy nose and stern dark eyes in his mind. No, in her late forties Sister Augustine could not have expected to marry again and have heirs with a new husband. The cloister had been her best choice; more so as she would be invaluable, having brought a flourishing business with her. Unless…

“She seemed very pallid to me,” he remembered. “Is she of poor health?”

In which case her office would be free for the taking, soon; another aspect to be considered.

Brother Rhodri shrugged. “She has a weak stomach, they say; she cannot take much seasoning in her food, nor aught sweetened with honey or grape juice. Other than that, she’s robust enough. And a stern taskmaster, too. Sister Waltraut, who works with her in the embroidery shop, saw her make the girls and younger sisters undo entire altar shawls or mitres for one small mistake in the stitches.”

Which would not make her well-loved among those working under her hand – but it would make the wares coming from Farewell famous and much sought-after. Still, there was another source for inner conflicts within the convent. Cadfael felt that he did not envy Mother Patrice for the task entrusted to her. But she was a strong woman. She would manage.

“How many lay sisters does the house have anyway?” he asked, as Brother Rhodri had only mentioned one so far. It seemed unlikely, though, that they would not have more. Just like the monks in Shrewsbury, they would need lay sisters who do the heavy labour while the others were standing in the church, praying.

“Only three so far,” replied the hermit, “although with this kin-strife going on for a few more years, there might be entire armies of poor widows seeking safety behind such sacred walls. But for now, there’s Sister Waltraut – you can easily recognize her, as she was born with a lame leg and walks with the help of a cane – Sister Jehane, who’s in charge of the laundry house and the clothes press, and Sister Donata, the _bakestre_ ; a big, raw-boned warhorse of a woman, slow of wit but with a heart of pure gold. She bakes very good bread, too,” he added, lifting the lid from his modest bowl of porridge and sniffing appreciatively. “If you don’t mind, Brother, I’d eat my midday meal as long as it’s still warm. But do come and visit me any time you want. I shall be glad to answer your questions if I can.”

Recognising the dismission, Cadfael took his leave for the cheerful hermit and returned to the guest house. He intended to write down some of Sister Alphonse’s self-created recipes as long as he still remembered them.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
At the same time as Cadfael visited the hermit, the contract to one of the very grants they had discussed was being signed in the private parlour of Mother Patrice. The documents, with which Bishop de Clinton transferred the land formerly held by Haminch de Hammerwich – at his own request – to the Priory of Farewell, had been carefully re-phrased and rewritten by Hugh, his chaplain, and prepared to be signed by Father Radulfus and Robert the reeve as witnesses. Deacon Serlo and Brother Mark had also been invited, in case they would need to act in the bishop’s name by similar agreements, while a small local nobleman, Alvrich de Quadraria, stood as witness for the secular authorities.

Haminch de Hammerwich had brought his entire family to witness the giving of the grant. A big, fleshy man in his late fifties, with a second wife more than a decade his junior but with no children from this second marriage, he made a splendid appearance in his finery, with short-cropped, iron-grey hair and a neatly-trimmed grey beard framing his fine, strong features. His pale eyes, though, had something of a religious fanatic; having entered the last leg of his life’s journey, he was clearly worried about the salvation of his soul, for which reason he might have suggested the grant to Farewell to begin with. A decision after which, if rumours could be trusted, he would have had a bad fallout with his only son and heir.

Said son, by the name of Hamo, could not be older than twenty-three or twenty-four years by the look of him, although his straw-blond hair, shorn at collar length, already seemed to be thinning at his temples and crown. A common enough country lad, in good homespun, long-legged and wide-shouldered, with a long, handsome countenance and grey-blue Saxon eyes. Presently, he had an angry scowl on that comely face, clearly unhappy about the loss of half his inheritance; and that he had also been dragged here to see it happening.

His stepmother, Dame Astola, on the other hand, seemed to have accepted her husband’s growing piety with tired resignation. A quiet, submissive young woman perhaps of thirty-five years of age, she was the dowerless daughter of a penniless knight, who never dared to speak up against the men of her family. Least so against her husband, who – while considerably below her in rank – provided her with the means of a better life than she would have ever hoped for.

Her simple yet finely-made clothes bore witness of those means. She wore a floor-length chemise of dark blue linen and over that a form-fitting bliaut of a paler blue, which had a flaring shirt and sleeves tight to the elbow and then widening to wrist in trumpet shape, revealing the long, tight sleeves of the chemise, in French fashion. Her face was thin and pale in the white frame of the crisp linen wimple, her skin very fair, and her eyes, reserved and weary, a pale, clear blue. An errant lock of white-blond hair, escaping from its confinement somehow, glittered like pure silver against the background of the dark blue veil covering her fine, elegant head. The rest of her hair must have been coiled up under the veil, for it could not be seen, but that single lock spoke clearly of a Danish ancestor somewhere in her bloodline. She could have been very beautiful, had she had but a little more life in her.

Unlike her stepson, she listened to the discussion about the wording of the contract with resigned indifference. She had spent her youth in dignified poverty and probably dreaded the return of such circumstances; yet assurances had been made to provide for her, thus she had less reason to begrudge Farewell the generous grant than Hamo might have.

The young man’s face darkened considerably when Hugh the chaplain read the finalized contract for everyone to hear.

“His Lordship Roger de Clinton, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield, hereby grants the half hide of land held by Haminch de Hammerwich at Haminch's own request, to the Benedictine Priory of Lichfield, currently under the leadership of Mother Patrice of Coventry. Half of this estate is to be held by the sisters of Farewell in demesne and the other half by Haminch's heir as tenant of the good sisters. This contract, unless the grantor decides otherwise, will be valid in three day’s time.”

“My congratulations, sir, “said Hamo de Hammerwich bitterly, as all witnesses had signed the document and put their personal seals (or, in Abbot Radulfus’ case, the seal of the Abbey) upon it. “You’ve just bought your place in heavens – on the price your own son’s future. I’m sure the angels and the saints will be pleased.”

“Young man,” said the bishop warningly, “this is not the proper manner to speak to your father.”

“My _father_?” repeated the young man bitterly. “I have no father, my lord. A man who robs his own son of any future livelihood, just to buy himself safeties in the afterlife, is not a father; ‘tis a coward. He’s relieved about the fate of his miserable soul, and I… I’m but a beggar, with no hope to find a suitable wife or feed a family of my own, ever!”

“Now, why would you speak such nonsense, son?” shook his head Robert, the reeve of the village of Farewell. He was a thickset fellow of about forty-five, bearded and round-faced; a good-natured soul, but with a dignified reserve about him, and also a devout patron of the nunnery. “It does stand in the contract that you shall hold half of those lands as a tenant to this house, doesn’t it?”

“ _Half_ of what should be held by me by rights, and even that as a servant of the nuns!” exclaimed the young man in angry disappointment. “Good, fertile soil that I’ve been tending to since I was old enough to hold the plough straight! Where’s the justice in that? Those lands were all I had, but this man, who dares to call himself my _father_ , gives them away, to a houseful of nuns who already have fat enough alms to feed them for three lifetimes each – more than they could ever use!”

“You dare to speak about justice?” Bishop de Clinton was beginning to get angry, too. “Have you forgotten that those lands were never yours? They were _mine_ , by the right of my family, and you and your father were mere tenants, tending to them.”

“I haven’t forgotten _that_ ,” replied the young man darkly. “But _you_ , my lord bishop, seem to forget that have _we_ not tended to _your_ lands, you wouldn’t be clad and horsed so splendidly as you are. Or would _you_ have come to tend to your own lands with those soft, white hands that never lifted anything heavier than a pen or an eating knife?”

The bishop involuntarily glanced from his own strong, graceful hands at those of the young man that were brown and roughened by long years of heavy labour on the fields. Ere he could have thought of a proper answer, though, the father cut in.

“Insolent cub!” shouted Haminch de Hammerwich and backhanded his son with a force that the young man fell against the wall behind him and blood began to trickle from his nose. “How do you _dare_ to speak to the lord bishop in such a foul manner? What’s mine is mine, and you have no right to approve or disapprove of what I do with it. A man grown or not, you’re not above a sound beating, as long as you live under _my_ roof!”

The young man balled his fists, losing his own temper very quickly; for a moment it seemed that he would attack his own father, before the eyes of all the assembled clergy and the lay witnesses. Fortunately, Brother Mark came between them just in time, holding Hamo back with a surprising strength acquired in the years he had laboured on his uncle’s farm. A strength no-one would have expected from his slight frame.

“Leave it, lad,” he said in a calm, soothing voice he would have used with a bolting horse. “What’s done is done; you cannot change it,” he glanced at the bishop. “My lord, with your leave I’ll take him to Brother Cadfael to have his injury seen to and the bleeding stopped. Perhaps his head, too, will cool down a little in the fresh air.”

Roger de Clinton nodded. “A most sensible suggestion, Brother Mark. Please do so. We can finish our business here without your assistance.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“The lord bishop and Master Haminch are most generous,” said Mother Patrice after Collations, in private council with Abbot Radulfus, Brother Adrianus and Sister Augustine,” yet I am still most disturbed by the scene we had to witness at the signing of the contract. I never knew the young man would be so embittered by this grant – or his father so bent on making it, despite his objections.”

“His objections are of no consequence,” stated Sister Augustine judgementally. “He has no ownership over those lands, even if his greed has obviously driven him to such delusions. ‘Tis not our fault that he’s been nursing futile hopes.”

“The lord bishop was well within his rights to grant the lands to Farewell,” added Abbot Radulfus. “And so was Master Haminch to suggest the grant.”

“Perhaps so,” allowed Mother Patrice, “but could a religious house like ours truly benefit from a grant that has raised so much hatred between father and son? In one thing that young man was right: we _do_ have enough to cover our needs; ours, _and_ those of the poor who turn to us for sustenance. True, the income of those lands would help us to finish the building of the cloister much sooner. But what good would do us a fine stone building, when it is founded on envy and hatred?”

“Your concerns are well-founded, Reverend Mother,” said Brother Adrianus, “but there is nought you can do about this. You cannot refuse the grant of the lord bishop; neither can you give it back to that angry young fellow. They belong to Farewell now – for good or for worse.”

“I know,” the prioress sighed. “I fear this will be for the worse, though.”

“Should it come to that, it shan’t be your responsibility,” pointed out Abbot Radulfus. “You have not _asked_ for this grant, after all.”

The prioress raised a sardonic eyebrow.

“Somehow that fact won’t make me sleep any better,” she replied drily. “We are recipients of something the loss of which someone mourns bitterly. We may not have _asked_ for it, true, but we still benefit from the loss of a young man’s hopes, who wanted to build his entire future on this. Foolish as it may sound, but it makes me feel like a thief.”

Sister Augustine shook her head in disagreement. As a woman who had helped to run her late husband’s business for many years, she saw such things less… sentimentally.

“You’re too gracious, Mother Patrice. You should not worry about things that are not within your power either to affirm or to change,” she said.

“Shouldn’t I?” echoed Mother Patrice. “I believe that I should. The good of Christian souls should be our first concern in everything. But you’re correct in one thing, Sister Augustine: it isn’t within my powers to change this, even if I wanted. So, unless Master Haminch has a change of heart within the next three days and asks the lord bishop to reconsider, this is one more responsibility I’ll have to shoulder, whether it has been my doing or not.”

“He won’t change his heart about this,” said Brother Adrianus quietly. “He’s a man used to have his own way; and that his son dared to speak up against his choice has only strengthened his decision. Your grant is safe, Reverend Mother.”

“Safe it may be,” answered Mother Patrice softly, “but is it blessed as well? I do wonder.”

“It’s been blessed by the lord bishop,” Sister Augustine reminded her.

The prioress nodded. “I know. ‘Tis God’s blessing I’m worried about, though.”

To that, the others had no proper answer, and she rose resolutely.

“Well, my lord abbot, it seems that there’s nothing we can do to make things better indeed, and the bell for _Vespers_ will be tolling, soon. Sister Augustine will escort you to the lord bishop’s lodging; I hope that will be to your liking. Father Adrianus, you can go with Sister Amadea. She’ll show you to the sacristy and where the liturgical robes are kept. She serves as the sacristan until a permanent one is found for that task.”

She waited for her guests to leave, ere she would lower herself onto the praying desk to seek guidance by the higher powers watching over their lives.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
In his small chamber in the guest hall, Brother Cadfael, who had been told about the awful scene between Haminch de Hammerwich and his son by Brother Mark, was doing the same. He had seen enough resentful heirs in his life to expect the worst from a basically decent young man who had been pressed beyond his endurance.

He was seriously worried about this family, trapped between exaggerated piety, jealous love for the lands that had been more truly theirs, the ones who had laboured on them, than they had ever belonged to the de Clintons, and the fear from what tomorrow might bring. For while the father feared the salvation of his own soul after death, the son was concerned about not being able to _make_ a life, hopefully a good one, _before_ death, and who could tell which of those concerns was the more urgent one? Which one of them would be more desperate to set his fears to rest?

Cadfael shook his head tiredly and rose from his knees to attend Vespers in the small church. He had done what he could do: dressed the broken nose of the son, entrusting him to Brother Mark’s care – the rest was in God’s hand.


	8. Cui Bono?

**CHAPTER SEVEN – CUI BONO?**

The visitors lodging in the guest hall rose early for Mass in the next morning. The Benedictine brothers had already attended to _Matins, Lauds_ and _Prime_ , of course, observing the daily routine according to their vows, but now the visiting laity was stirring as well, intent on proving their piety.

As it would fit a man who had just delivered his daughter to the cloister a day before, Master Geoffrey Peche was the first to emerge: a peaceable man past fifty, round and fleshy, with a clean-shaven, smiling face and a balding head. He stepped out into the open courtyard, robed for going to church already, with the folds of his capuchon lying on his shoulders like a short cape.

Robert, the reeve of Farewell, was coming up from the village with his wife, a sturdy, comely woman by the name of Elfrid, and joined Master Peche at once. They discussed yesterday’s troubling events for a while, waiting for Mistress Peche to come out and follow them to the church. Mistress Elfrid, who clearly shared her husband’s religious devotion, was greatly appalled by the fact that young Hamo de Hammerwich would oppose his father’s grant to the nunnery.  
  
Their son, however, a big, tow-headed, shaggy fellow in a worn leather jerkin, showed a great deal more understanding towards the resentful heir. Small wonder, considering that something similar had happened to him, too less than a month previously.

“Young people only care for the riches of his world; never of the good of their souls,” declared his mother judgementally; then, turning to Master Peche, she added. “Thomas has set his mind on becoming a soldier and hoped to keep himself armed and mounted from what our lands yield in a year.”

“Or what they _would_ yield, had you not given them to the nuns,” muttered the young man sullenly.

Master Peche shook his head in sorrowful understanding. “You sound like my own son; he cannot stop complaining against Sara taking the veil and taking the lands at Morhale to the cloister with her. Always muttering under his breath, and his mother supporting him, too, lying on my ear about that all the time.”

“Well, your son had to inherit his belligerent disposition from _somewhere_ ,” commented the reeve, knowing Mistress Peche and her querulous nature all too well. The Peches’ lands bordered on his, thus he had seen Master Geoffrey’s children grew up alongside of his own.

Said lady was emerging from the guest hall at this very moment, in the company of Dame Astola de Hammerwich – two women who could not be more different. Madlen Peche, a sturdy, confident figure of a woman, was a head shorter than Haminch’s wife, perhaps fifty (or not much younger) but still fair, and by the weighty appearance of her, rather well-provided for. Her dress was sombre and plain, but of good, fine cloth, and proudly kept, her wimple snow-white beneath her veil of dark green linen. Her face was round, narrow-eyed yet broad-cheeked, and usually had an expression of mulish unhappiness. At the moment, however, she seemed to be more worried for Dame Astola’s sake than for anything else.

“He’s not here,” she stated, after a fleeting glance at the people gathered in the courtyard. Her voice, too, sounded high and querulous.

“Who’s not here?” asked Mistress Elfrid with a frown.

“Master Haminch,” replied Madlen Peche. “He hasn’t come back to the guest hall last night. Dame Astola is most concerned.”

“I thought he’d spend the night in the chapel, praying,” whispered Dame Astola. “He’s done that before when something would upset him. And he _was_ very much upset last night. He knows his own temper; and whenever he loses it, he regrets it afterwards deeply. He regretted having hit his son before the eyes of all people yesterday, too.”

Wisely, the reeve refrained from the question whether Master Haminch would have had the same regrets for beating his own wife, and how often. He assumed that the man would treat his wife well, considering how much above him she stood by birth, but if he truly had a fearsome temper, it might have happened.

“Perhaps he _is_ with his son, then,” said Robert, not truly believing it, just wanting to comfort the frightened lady.

Dame Astola, however, shook her head. “No; I asked Sweyn, that is my husband’s groom, to look after them. He says Hamo’s gone to the village last night, to the tavern… and never came back, either.”

“That needs not to mean aught,” said Mistress Elfrid. “Perhaps he’s lying drunk in some hayloft, as young men do when they’re full of ale. Certainly, he’ll return when he’s slept out his stupor.”

“Perhaps so; but where could be Master Haminch then?” pondered Mistress Peche. “I doubt that he’d follow his son to the tavern.”

“He wouldn’t,” assured Dame Astola. “My husband despises taverns; he says they are the breeding nests of sin, with all that drinking, gambling, and brawling and… and the wenches who serve there.”

Their guesswork was interrupted by the clattering of hooves. A small party of seven rode up to the nunnery, led by a dark, sinewy, olive-faced nobleman not much younger than fifty, very splendidly dressed in sombre, glowing colours: Alvrich de Quadraria, a former crusader, holding six fat manors in the shire. He was mounted on a light, fast grey; his thick, curly black hair barely shot with grey, with a clipped dark beard framing his generous mouth. His was a narrow, yet open face, and the dark, almond-shaped eyes under the long, agile brows constantly in search of his surroundings: the eyes of an experienced soldier, always on alert but unafraid of aught that might come.

His wife was about the same age; thin and neat and sharply handsome, dark like her lord and mounted on a roan mare. She was sumptuously arrayed in cloth of gold and dark blue silks, her coiled black hair gathered in a gilded net. Three young fellows, between twenty and twenty-five of age and with features showing definite likeness to both her and her lord, rode with them, as well as two young grooms in fine leather jerkins.

Recognizing them at once – after all, they represented the higher circles of nobility in this area – the reeve turned to the former crusader in pleasant surprise.

“My Lord Quadraria,” he said, his tongue stumbling ever so slightly over the foreign name; the Quadrarias originated from Venice, ‘twas said, and Alvrich’s father had received his manors for his outstanding service of the de Clintons in the Holy Land, thus they still counted as newcomers here. “You chose to attend to Mass in the nunnery church today, after all?”

‘Twas a rare occasion indeed that they should observe the service everywhere else than in their own little chapel, where their house chaplain would celebrate it, preaching to the family in French, which was the Lady Iseult’s mother tongue. She was the daughter of a French knight of Normandy and had followed his husband to England only a couple of years earlier. Their three sons had all been born in Normandy, and among each other, they usually spoke in the _langue d’oui_ of that region.

“I wanted to profit from the lord bishop’s presence,” Alvrich the Quadraria dismounted and threw the rein to one of the grooms, who hurriedly took it. “He’s my overlord, after all, not only my bishop, and there are several issues that we need to discuss. But why are you all standing here in the courtyard? The bell for Mass has just sounded; another moment, and you’ll be late!”

“Master Haminch is missing,” explained the reeve. “He hasn’t come back to the guest hall last night, and his lady wife is worried about him.”

“It might not be anything serious,” said Alvrich. “But we shall be searching for him, I promise – in due time. Let us attend to Mass together, and after that, we’ll organise a thorough search.”

Clearly relieved that a competent man, one used to give orders, would take things in his experienced hands, the others followed him to the small church.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
According to their vows and their special vocation, the hermits of Farewell did not attend to Mass in the church of the priory. They did not need to: Brother Rhodri, the eldest among them, had been ordained as a priest before becoming a hermit and celebrated Mass in his own small hut every morning. This was the only time they were allowed to enter each other’s cells. For the rest of the day, each prayed the hours of the office in solitude.

Brother Godric, a quiet, subdued, naturally humble young man of about thirty, happened to be late this morning. He had submerged in his studies after _Prime_ – he had been reading the _Treatises_ of the greatly respected early church father John Chrysostom for the last year, and Greek was not exactly his forte – and forgotten about the time in his fierce concentration.

Thus when the bell reminded him of the immediate beginning of service, he hurriedly blew up his small oil lamp and took the shortcut through his garden, where a latte of his fence was loose, waiting to be repaired for some days by then. If in need, he could slip through the fence at that place – admittedly, with some effort – and reach Brother Rhodri’s hut just in time.

Hurrying along the path between the carrot and turnip beds, he aimed at the small rose bush that half-concealed the hole in his fence. ‘Twas not a tall bush, nor one that would bloom abundantly – Brother Godric was a devoted yet not very skilled gardener – but it carried a few chance buds that promised to unfold into a full, dark red splendour, being a late-blooming sort. Brother Godric was looking forward each new year to it; to the only thing of unblemished, innocent beauty in his solitary life.

As he came within arm’s length of the bush, however, he halted, sicken and appalled. Against the pale fence of his small garden, the red rose-bush sagged side-long, its thorny arms dragged from the planks, its thickened bole broken away a quarter of its weight and growth, dangling into the grass, as if something of great and destructive weight would have fallen onto it on that side.

Beneath the bush a still heap of good homespun clothes lay huddled, half sunk in the grass… or so it seemed. Soon, however, he could also see an arm, flung out widely; a wide, brown hand clenched into the soil, and a thick cap of grey hair, gleaming in the morning light like silver. A big, portly man, clad modestly yet decently, was lying in his garden – dead.

Brother Godric did not recognise the man at once – unlike Brother Rhodri, he had no interest in the affairs of the locals; or those of the nuns, for that matter. Nor did people come to him for advice, unless they wanted him to write a letter for them. Nevertheless, he knew death when he saw it. He had seen it before. Death had been what forced him to flee his former home and seek refuge by God.

Hesitantly, he reached out to touch the dead man’s hand. ‘Twas chill but not yet cold. The man could not have been dead for long. With careful dread, he eased a hand under the head, and turned to the morning light the pallid, bearded face of Haminch de Hammerwich.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Alerted by the hermits right after Mass – Brother Rhodri had the mother with not the disrupt service with the dreadful news, as the victim was already beyond any man’s help – Bishop de Clinton took things into his own capable hands. He asked Mother Patrice to send all nuns to their daily work (there was preciously little they could have said or done anyway) and ordered everyone else to keep out of the way, ‘til being questioned later. Then he took Abbot Radulfus – and, to the abbot’s suggestion, Brother Cadfael – with him to examine the horrible found in the young hermit’s garden.

“He died by strangulation,” judged Cadfael, closing the half-stiffened lids over the bulging, blindly staring eyes. “Yet not by hand… or by some common rope, I’d say. Look at his neck!”

He drew the folds of the capuchon down from the thick throat and showed the sharp, cruel line that ran round the whole neck and seemed to sever the massive head from the body.

“’Twas a thin cord; not quite as thin as a fishing line, but still thin enough to bite into his flesh deeply,” he continued. “You can see the edges of this furrow in the skin: they are discoloured and shiny. I’d say, perchance the drawstring of a satchel or a purse; waxed, too, so that it would slide through the holes in cloth or leather smoothly. Not the professional tool of a highway robber, though, as I can find no sign of the usual wooden peg, the handhold to twist when the cord is round the victim’s throat. I do not think that this murder would have been pre-meditated. I imagine rather that someone happened to see the perfect opportunity and acted at a whim of his heart.”

“Is it certain, then, that the murderer was a man?” asked the bishop. Cadfael shrugged.

“As a rule, killing someone with just a thin cord would require considerable strength of hand, which is more common by men than by women,” he answered. “Yet I cannot entirely rule out the possibility that it _was_ a woman, after all; one used to hard work. For as you can see, my lord bishop, his neck is lacerated and beaded with dried blood, where the cord had cut into his flesh.”

“Which means what?” asked Roger de Clinton, a little impatiently.

Cadfael lifted the dead man’s right hand, the one _not_ clutching the soil. “Look at his nails, my lord; the tips are back with his own blood. He clawed at the cord that was killing him; there can be no doubt about that. Fought for his life.”

“But why with one hand only?” frowned Abbot Radulfus.

“That I cannot say,” admitted Cadfael. “Not before I had the chance to examine him thoroughly, that is.”

Bishop and abbot exchanged thoughtful looks over the dead body; then Abbot Radulfus nodded.

“Brother Cadfael’s insights have proven helpful many times in the past with unresolved riddles,” he said. “I say we let him examine the body. Perchance he’ll find more answers for us. ’Tis something he’s very good at.”

“Very well,” answered the bishop after brief hesitation. “I’ll ask Mother Patrice for the use of their infirmary; and ask Alvrich de Quadraria to join the investigation. I’ll have to leave this in his hands in any case, as I cannot dawdle here much longer.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
As it could be expected, Mother Patrice took the bishop’s request for a direct order, and thus the body of Master Haminch was taken into the infirmary of the nuns, which was currently empty, by God’s grace. At first Bishop de Clinton seemed to have objections against the presence of Sister Alphonse where a man would be stripped bare, but the old nun waved off his concerns.

“My lord bishop, I had tended to men and women alike, in all degrees of nakedness, ere I took the veil some four years ago. I used to be a midwife and the right hand of my father, a barber-surgeon. You cannot show me aught I’d not seen already – and few things can still disturb me. Surely not a strangled man; I’ve seen my fair share of those, too.”

The bishop could not truly argue with _that_ , and thus Sister Alphonse, together with Brother Mark, was allowed to assist Cadfael with the examination of the dead man’s body. They stripped down the late Master Haminch to his small clothes and searched his body thoroughly for any further injuries.

They did not have to search too long. As long as they rolled the body onto its front, they could all see two large, rounded bruises on the back. They were an angry purple-red right under the shoulder blades, proving that they had been caused before the man’s death, continuing in somewhat paler, broad twin streaks toward the waistline, opening like a pair of huge scissor blades.

“That explains it,” said Sister Alphonse, and Cadfael nodded in agreement.

“Explains _what_?” demanded Alvrich de Quadraria. “I’m glad that you seem to have solved the whole mystery, Brother, but would you care to enlighten the rest of us as well?”

“It explains how he could be killed with only a cord, and with relative ease,” replied Sister Alphonse. “He must have been kneeling when attacked; or crouching down for some reason. His murderer knocked him forward, and then held him down by kneeling across his back, using both hands to tighten the cord. It could only have taken moments, as his own weight would support the murderer in finishing him. It was surprisingly easy; _I could have done_ it, were I so inclined.”

Alvrich de Quadraria glanced doubtfully at the old nun’s hands, which were exceptionally small, even for a woman, but Cadfael nodded.

“That would explain the other hand, too,” he said. “’Twas most likely trapped under his body, so he couldn’t use it to defend himself.”

“Trapped?” echoed Abbot Radulfus. “But he was lying on his back when Brother Godric found him, with that arm flung out.”

“And yet he had dirt in that hand,” reminded him the bishop.”

Cadfael hazarded a guess. “His murderer must have rolled him over while removing the cord.”

“The cord that has since been weaved back into the satchel or purse it belongs to, and is probably in plain sight, without any-one recognizing it,” added Alvrich de Quadraria grimly. “Do we have any chance to find it?”

“Very little, I fear,” said the bishop. “You’ll have to take a different path in this: the path of motivation. What you must ask is: _Cui bono?_ Whose interests were served by the death of Master Haminch?”

“That’s an interesting question,” murmured Cadfael.

Alvrich de Quadraria shook his head. “I do not think so. We’ve all witnessed the signing of the contract yesterday, my lord bishop, Father Abbot. Clearly, ‘twas the dead man’s son who took revenge for the loss of what he’d thought to be his inheritance.”

“But what good would that bring him?” argued Cadfael. “The only one who could reverse the grant within three days is the lord bishop himself. Master Haminch no longer had a say in this.”

“That’s not entirely true,” said the bishop. “Had he come to me, saying that his conscience could not bear to see his only son thusly bereft, I _might_ have considered reversing the grant. I cannot, with good faith, force any-one to do something against their better judgement.”

“If that is so, though, then young Hamo’s best interest would be to keep his father alive, at least for these three days,” pointed out Cadfael logically. “A dead man can no longer reconsider.”

“Unless he was afraid that his father would give away the rest of their lands, too, in another bout of piety,” commented Sister Alphonse. “Some men are more devoted to the land they tend to than they could ever be to any wife they may take.”

“True enough,” allowed Alvrich de Quadraria. “But if you say, Brother, that this wasn’t a pre-mediated murder, the son also might have acted in a fit of rage. More so if he had enough ale in him.”

Cadfael shook his head. “People who kill in rage use a cudgel, or an axe, or even a stone they’ve picked up from along their path. Spontaneous though this murder might have been, the murderer knew well enough what he or she was doing… and how to cover his or her tracks.”

“Which would point us in the direction of the son again,” stated Alvrich de Quadraria, but once more, Cadfael shook his head.

“Not necessarily. I have the feeling that when we take a closer look at this man’s life and household, we’ll find enough other reasons… or suspects. But whatever the case might be,” he added, spreading a linen cloth to cover the corpse, “he cannot tell us anything else. We’ll have to seek for answers elsewhere.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Shortly thereafter Bishop de Clinton departed with his entourage, having more pressing issues to deal with. He left, however, Brother Mark behind, to render him account of the investigation afterwards, which showed a great deal of trust in the abilities of a deacon so young… not that Cadfael would ever doubt Mark’s worthiness of said trust.

Abbot Radulfus and Brother Vitalis left together with the bishop – but without Cadfael. Alvrich de Quadraria, apparently quite taken with Cadfael’s knowledge and insights as a leech, had asked the abbot to borrow him for the investigation. Not having previous experience with murder cases – having been a crusader was of little help here – the knight felt that he was in sore need of some help. Radulfus had given his consent, and they had all agreed that Brother Cadfael and Deacon Mark would return together, after the case had been solved.

Cadfael did not truly mind standing. The intricacies of the case intrigued him – unlike Lord Quadraria, he did not believe that young Hamo would have murdered his own father, whether in a fit or rage or in cold blood – and he sensed well-hidden secrets in that seemingly so pious family. Secrets that had to be revealed, if they wanted to find the true murderer. Alvrich de Quadraria seemed a just enough man, but also a hasty one, and Cadfael did not want Haminch’s heir to be hanged, just because he seemed a convenient suspect.

Lord Quadraria invited Cadfael and Brother Mark to accompany him while he questioned the suspects and witnesses – since they stood for Abbey and bishop – and Cadfael wad glad about that. ‘Twas a little like the beginning of his friendship with Hugh Beringar: no complete trust yet, but mutual respect, and a combination of different skills that had brought the desired results in the end. He was certain that – given enough time to learn to know each other better – he would be able to work with this sharp-minded, taciturn, capable knight _almost_ as well as he could work with Hugh. And even though this was likely the only time they would investigate together, he hoped that Lord Quadraria would listen to him before making any rash decisions.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
They went to question Brother Godric first, the young hermit who had found the body in his garden. They found him in his front room, studying, but he rose from his desk with respectful hurry to invite them in.

A fairly plain young fellow he was, middle of height and lean of stature, with meagre flesh on his strong bones like someone who could never eat his fill in his entire life but had long grown used to that. His short-cropped hair was a light brown, almost blond, and the untrimmed bush of a fair beard made his long, austere, scholarly visage look older than he truly was. Large, grey-blue eyes – Saxon eyes – blinked a bit short-sightedly from the two sides of a long, pointy nose as he busied himself to clear desk and bench, so that the visitors would have enough room to sit comfortably.

There were books everywhere, some of them clearly copied by the hermit himself, and as Cadfael glanced at the large, sinewy hands of their host, he remembered Brother Rhodri’s casual remark that Brother Godric would have the neatest handwriting of them all. Yes, those long, graceful fingers were most likely well-used to wielding the pen. This was a scholar, if there had ever been one, and most likely a self-made one.

With scholarly precision did he also tell them how he had found the dead man in his small garden.

“I was already late for Mass,” he admitted ruefully. “The treaty of Saint John Chrysostom _On the Incomprehensibility of the Divine Nature_ is not an easy read; even less so with so little Greek as I have. I was so immersed in my studies that I forgot about the time and nearly overheard the church bell, too.”

“It surprises me that a humble hermit like you would know any Greek at all,” said Alvrich de Quadraria, “or, in fact, own any such books. Unless you are nobly born, that is.”

Which, by the simple looks of Brother Godric, was rather unlikely. Clearly, he knew that himself, for he laughed gently.

“Oh, no, my lord, I’m but the bastard of a poor Saxon maidservant. What little I know, I was taught by the good brothers of Modwennestow Abbey, where I used to be a lay servant for a few years. They also gifted some used shelves of vellum upon me and allowed me to copy the books I cherished most.”

He obviously remembered those years with great fondness, for his eyes seemed to look backwards as if seeing some good memories.

“And yet you left the service of the brothers,” said Cadfael. “You never felt the call to cloistered life?”

Brother Godric shook his head. “No; cloistered brothers have a multitude of tasks assigned to them. All I ever wanted was to study in peace. I knew about this hermitage, and that two of the huts had been empty for a long time. I’d come here before, on errant of Modwennestow, and spoken to Brother Rhodri. But I could not come earlier. I had to look after my mother, who was then living in Burton-upon-Trent at that time, and in poor health. When she did die, near six years ago, I came here at once. Brother Iefan came half a year later.”

“But if you used to live in Burton,” said Alvrich de Quadraria, “then you must have known Master Haminch, too. His lands lie near the Abbey fields.”

For the first time, the young hermit did not answer at once. A curiously careful look crept into his otherwise so clear and honest eyes, and when he finally did spoke, it was a strangely reluctant answer.

“I knew him… that is, I did see him, from time to time, but I never spoke with him. He was a respected tenant with much land to his name, and I… I was but an Abbey servant.”

Again, there seemed to be something odd… something close to accusation in his voice. For the time being, though, Cadfael chose to ignore it.

“You did recognise him, though, when you found him this morning, didn’t you?” he asked, and Brother Godric nodded.

“Not at first,” he admitted, “but when I turned his face to the light… yes, I knew then who he was. I called Brother Rhodri at once; he has been here the longest, and thus we consider him our elder. He alarmed the lord bishop, then… and you, my lord.”

Alvrich de Quadraria nodded. “That he did. And there’s nought else you could tell us, Brother?”

The young hermit shook his head regretfully.

“I fear I cannot help you, my lord. We never leave our huts or gardens, save from attending to Mass in Brother Rhodri’s cell. Solitude is what we have chosen, and we have very little to do with the outside world.”

“But you _did_ write the first draft for Master Haminch; the one in which he explained the lord bishop his wish to grant half his lands to the sisters,” said Brother Mark quietly. He had seen the document himself and remebered now the name of the scribe having been signed on it as it was custom.

“No; I merely copied it,” replied Brother Godric. “Brother Rhodri wrote the first draft; yet as his handwriting is not as neat as mine, he asked me to make a clearer copy for the lord bishop.”

“And you never spoke about it to anyone?” asked Alvrich de Quadraria. That question earned him an astonished look from the hermit.

“Of course not, my lord; whom could I have spoken to anyway? I’m not the one people would come to for words of wisdom.” But there was something in his voice that rang the alarm bells in Cadfael’s head.

Apparently not only in _his_ head, either.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“There is something Brother Godric doesn’t tell us,” said Brother Mark thoughtfully, after they had left the hermit’s hut.

Alvrich de Quadraria stared at him in disbelief. “Are you saying, Brother, that this scholarly young fellow had a hand in Master Haminch’s death?”

“No,” answered Brother Mark. “I’m only saying that he has a secret; one that he tries to keep tightly to his chest. It needn’t to be anything sinister – but it is something, I believe, that he would prefer not to share with anyone… for reasons of his own.”

“And we cannot get it out of him, can we,” said the knight with a weary sigh. “Not unless I order him to be tortured.”

“And what would _that_ prove?” asked Cadfael, agitated by the mere idea of torture. “A tortured man would tell you everything you want to hear – but that wouldn’t necessarily bring us any closer to the truth.”

“I still say we need to know what he’s hiding,” said Alvrich de Quadraria.

“And I agree,” replied Cadfael. “But there’s another way to learn it; a slower yet easier way, or so I hope. Let me speak to Sister Alphonse. She’s from one of the neighbouring villages and has known practically everyone who’s lived here in the last sixty years. I’d be very surprised if she couldn’t tell me a great deal about the late Master Haminch.”

The knight chewed on his lower lip thoughtfully for a moment; then he nodded decisively.

“Very well. I’ll leave it to you, monastics, to clear it among yourselves. In the meantime, I believe it’s time to hear what Dame Astola de Hammerwich has to tell us. I’m most desirous to hear her side of the tale.”

“So am I,” replied Cadfael gravely and he and Brother Mark followed Alvrich de Quadraria to the guest hall.


	9. Prodigal Sons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vox angelica is an organ stop, giving a gentle tremolo effect; it means “the voice of the angels”. This story takes place after the sixteenth novel, “The Heretic’s Apprentice”, but before the seventeenth, “The Potter’s Field”.

**CHAPTER EIGHT – PRODIGAL SONS**

For all that Mistress Madlen Peche seemed reluctant to leave her alone with the three men, Dame Astola de Hammerwich accepted their visit – and their questions – with collected dignity. If the news of her husband’s sudden and violent death had shocked her, she must have pushed that shock into the background, so that she could play her role of the dignified widow properly.

For his part, Cadfael supposed that her loss had not been a grievous one; at least not where personal feelings were concerned. Theirs had been a marriage of convenience, like many others; and like many others, it had probably served its purpose well enough. She might be feeling sorrow, perhaps even pity for her husband, who had died by violence and unshriven, but she would not miss him greatly.

Her own words, quiet but steady as she rendered account about her marriage, proved Cadfael right.  
  
“’Twas eighteen years ago that Haminch’s first wife, Urfried, died,” she explained. “She was a Saxon woman, they say, and he was devoted to her; I never met her myself. He didn’t want to marry again, but the house needed a keeper, and his son, barely six then, needed someone to look after him. He was a wilful child who would not listen to servants; but he had to listen to the dame of the house. So Haminch asked for my hand, and even though it meant to marry below my rank, my mother gave me away. What else could she have done? We were a hair’s breadth from starving, and she the penniless widow of a knight who’d had nought but his good name while he lived. But it was a name that bought me respect; even within the family that was to become my own.”

“Had it become your own family then?” asked Cadfael quietly.

She shrugged. “It served its purpose, for us both. With an age difference of sixteen years, and with such different origins as ours, there was not much that we’d have in common, but we arranged ourselves. He was a generous enough man, and I have modest needs. I assume he was content. I kept the household in order and his son in his reins, and that was all he wanted from me.”

“No more children, though?” Alvrich de Quadraria seemed surprised, and rightly so. Most men wanted as many children as possible, preferably sons who could continue the bloodline and enrich the family by the dowry of their brides one day.

Dame Astola smiled that weary, resigned smile at hers, clearly knowing all too well what they were thinking.

“Oh, we _have_ tried – having only one heir is always a risk – but I could never carry a babe to term. After a while, we ceased trying, as I nearly died from the blood loss after my last miscarriage. The midwife said I was too weak, for having lived on so little food when I was a child.”

But her veiled eyes spoke of a different reason, one that she would not share with them.

“It _could_ be,” allowed Cadfael. “There are people in the East who feed their girl-children in excess, for they believe that only well-fed girls would be able to bear strong, healthy children when they grow up.”

“Heathen superstitions,” said Alvrich de Quadraria with an impatient wave of his hand. “My own wife is thin enough, yet she had never experienced any difficulties to carry our children to term. Tell me, my lady, how you got along with your stepson, though. It could not have been easy; after all, you were barely ten years older than him.”

“Eleven,” she corrected. “’Twas enough when he was a child and I a woman grown to command his respect. Later, when the age difference no longer seemed quite that large, I became his friend; his confidante. Hamo is a hot-headed young man; generous, yet short-tempered, like his father. The two often clashed. One of my most needed tasks was to get between them in time.”

“You mean ere it would come to blows?” clarified Alvrich de Quadraria.

Dame Astola shook her head. “No, not to blows. Hamo would never raise his hand against his father. But Haminch… he could be heavy-handed when his temper got the better of him. You saw him yourself, my lord. He was the same with the grooms; or with the serfs working on his lands.”

“And with his wife?” asked Brother Mark quietly.

“Sometimes,” the lady admitted with downcast eyes, as if it had been _her_ shame. “Rarely, but it happened. That was how I lost my last babe. He was drunk, and I could not stop fretting about things, trying his patience beyond its limits. He never entered a tavern again after that. He always regretted his bouts of anger deeply, but this time, he seemed to have taken it to the heart in earnest. That was the time he began to fear for his soul so much, too; some six years ago.”

She did not say so, but Cadfael was fairly certain that her previous miscarriages, too, had been caused by the volatile temper of her husband. And now she was alone, reverted barren by all those misfortunes, with no hope to find late happiness, as her husband had given away a considerable part of their wealth in a desperate attempt to save his penitent soul. No lands to her name that might make her a desired party by some widowed nobleman.

Who could tell whether _that_ had been a strong enough drive to free herself from a man who had given her nothing but sorrow?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“I do not believe that she would even think of such violent action,” declared Brother Mark in his remarkable belief in people’s goodness and innocence – sometimes particularly if there seemed to be a great deal of proof of their guilt. Oddly enough, he had been often proven right in just those cases.

“I don’t assume that she’d have done the deed with her own hands, either,” said Alvrich de Quadraria. “But she could have been in league with her stepson. They’ve been close. She said so herself. I find myself wondering just _how_ close they might have been.”

“Not that close,” answered Cadfael promptly. “She spoke of the young man with fondness, true; but with a detached fondness, as one would speak of a younger brother, or of a child. She’s not a woman who’d be capable of great passion anyway. Or, at least, not any longer. Perhaps before she would marry Haminch there had been some spark within her that could have been kindled to fire, had she met the right man. But no longer.”

“You mean she’s no longer capable of love?” frowned Alvrich de Quadraria.

“Not love; _passion_ ,” corrected Cadfael. “I think she is well capable of _love_ still; of gentle, reserved feelings, of a union of souls… but nought beyond that. She _needs_ nought else. Devoted feelings, without the need to act upon them, would satisfy her completely.”

“But where would she find a man who would be satisfied by the same?” asked the knight rhetorically.

“Where indeed?” murmured Cadfael. There was something nagging at the fringe of his consciousness, but he could not quite put his finger on it; not yet.

“Perhaps she will take the veil one day,” said Brother Mark. “The kind of love she seems to be striving for can easily be provided by God.”

“It can,” said Cadfael, “yet I do not believe that she would find fulfilment in cloistered life. Behind all that weariness and resignation, a strong spirit born to soar freely is waiting to be released. This is her chance to become free, for the first time in her life. She shan’t take new restrictions upon herself if she can avoid it.”

“You’re a strange monk, Brother,” commented the knight. “A very strange monk indeed. Are you sure that your abbot would look at your thoughts kindly?”

“I’d been in the world, roaming it from one end to the other, for forty years before I would take the cowl,” answered Cadfael placidly. “I’ve seen much and learned much, and Father Abbot puts that knowledge to good use. You’ve been to the Holy Land yourself, my lord; you know that one cannot see the endless sand-dunes of the desert, the golden glow of Jerusalem – or all the blood and gore of a war called holy – and remain unchanged.”

“And yet you seem content enough with your life; the one you lead now,” said Alvrich de Quadraria.

Cadfael nodded. “That I am. But what I had learned in the outer world, I’ve taken to the cloister with me; and that is what makes me useful,” he fell silent, listening to the _Sext_ bell. “Well, Brother Mark and I must see now that we observe the office properly. After that, I shall speak with Sister Alphonse, to see what else she can tell us.”

“Not us; _you_ ,” said the knight. “I doubt that she’d tell much in my presence. Besides, you can move within the priory walls easier than I. I’ll return home to dine with my family; but I’ll come back after _Vespers_ , to hear what you have learned.”

That was fine with Cadfael, and so they parted ways. The two monks took their breviaries and hurried to church, while the knight and his entourage rode off to have dinner at home, which meant the one of their manors that lay closest to Farewell.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Brother Godric was kneeling on the single stone step before the small altar of the tiny chapel that took up half of his hut, half-singing, half-murmuring the psalms of _Sext_. As soon as the clattering of hooves could no longer be heard, though, he set the open breviary aside and went to the door to look out, just to reassure himself that the representatives of secular power were indeed gone. Then he re-entered the chapel, in obvious relief.

“You can come out,” he said in a low voice. “They’re gone.”

Hamo de Hammerwich crawled out from behind the altar on all fours. He was rumpled and red-eyed and hung over, and looked like a man with a mightily sore head… and with a serious grievance.

“Thank you,” he said. “I don’t know why you’d take the risk to hide me here, but I’m grateful nonetheless.”

Brother Godric sighed. “You’ve asked for sanctuary. This _is_ sacred ground here,” he gestured towards the small reliquary, resting on the altar. “Whatever you might or might not have done, I cannot refuse your request.”

Hamo gave him a strangely appalled look. “You never asked if I had killed my father.”

“No, I haven’t,” agreed Brother Godric. “Neither shall I do so, at any time, as long as you’re under my protection. ‘Tis not my right to ask such questions; nor do I truly want to know the answer. I can give you sanctuary for forty days; after that, I shall ask you to leave. But if you _are_ innocent in the death of your father, it would be perhaps wiser if you came forth and stated your innocence to the men of law. Hiding will only make you seem guilty.”

“They think me guilty already,” said Hamo bitterly.

“Perhaps; perhaps not,” replied the hermit. “Lord Quadraria appears to be a fair enough officer as undersheriffs go; and Brother Cadfael is on your side – or so Brother Rhodri says.”

“I thought you were not supposed to speak with each other,” commented Hamo.

“We are not,” admitted the hermit, “but we’re just men, fallible like the rest. Besides, I thought you’d want news. I’ll do penance for breaking the rules later.”

“Yet it cannot be for just the sanctuary rule that you would take such risks on my behalf,” said Hamo. “Why are you doing it?”

Brother Godric hesitated for a moment; then he shrugged. Considering how entwined their lives had become, he could as well tell the young man the truth.

“This is my penance for having held a grudge against a man who’s now dead for many long years,” he said simply.

Hamo’s eyes widened. “My father? What has he done to you?”

“He took from me the only family I still had,” said the hermit with a sigh. “I’ve been burdened with bitter hatred against him for too long; fought it in the solitude of this very chapel each day in vain. Now that he’s dead, I’m finally free. But welcoming the violent death of another man is _wrong_. That’s why I need to do penance as well as I can.”

Hamo gave him a piercing look. “Have you…:”

“I have not asked you that question,” said Brother Godric, “and you would do better not to ask _me_ the same. But let me ask you something else. Why have you chosen me? You could have asked either of us for sanctuary. Or the sisters. Or, indeed, the vicar of Saint Mary’s in the village. Why me, in whose very garden your father was found dead?”

“I’m not sure,” admitted Hamo. “I… I had the feeling that we’ve met before. Could I have seen you somewhere?”

“’Tis possible,” said the hermit. “I used to live in Burton for many years. We might have met on the marketplace. Or around the Abbey fields. I was an Abbey servant long enough.”

“An Abbey servant,” repeated Hamo with a frown, searching the bearded face for familiar features. “No, there was something else, something more…” he snapped with his fingers. “Were you not the Abbey clerk who used to bring my stepmother the books the good brothers gave her to read?”

“I was,” replied Brother Godric simply. “Dame Astola found great comfort in reading. Your father did not approve, though. ‘Twas before he’d become so pious himself.”

“But you haven’t been there for a long time,” said Hamo.

The hermit nodded. “Not since I came here. It has been more than five years… almost six by now, I suppose.”

“Still, if Lord Quadraria knew of this he would consider you a suspect, too. “Hamo pointed out. “Is that the true reason why you’re hiding me here?”

“No,” answered the hermit. “I would provide sanctuary to any-one who asks for it. ‘Tis my duty and my sacred privilege.”

“I still have the feeling that there is something more,” insisted Hamo. “Something you’re not telling me.”

“I cannot be made responsible for your feelings,” said Brother Godric, going down to his knees on the stone step before the altar again and reaching for the breviary. “If you’ll forgive me; I still have to finish my prayers.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Brother Cadfael took upon himself the sad yet merciful duty of preparing the late Haminch de Hammerwich’s body for the funeral, thus sparing Sister Alphonse the necessity of to do it. Not that the old nun would have been bothered by a task like that; but some of the more sensitive souls within the convent were greatly relieved that no-one of them would have to wash the naked corpse of a man. Only Sister Amadea, the self-appointed saint of Farewell, kept hovering around the infirmary, clearly unhappy that she had been robbed of the chance of such great self-sacrifice. Until Sister Alphonse chased her away with a few well-chosen word, telling her in no uncertain terms to look for saintly work somewhere where she was actually _needed_.

The old nun came to help Cadfael with the dressing of the dead man, as this was a more difficult task, requiring two pairs of hands. But together, they managed it with an ease that came from long practice, and soon enough, Master Haminch was lying on his byre, waiting with the patience of the dead to be carried over to Saint Mary’s Church, where his last rites would be celebrated.

“He was never as devout as in these last years,” commented Sister Alphonse, making the last arrangements of robes and hands. “His father, the old Hamon, had to beat him soundly in his wild youth to go to church at all, at least on the holy days, instead of going to the tavern to chase the serving wenches.”

“Have you known him for a long time?” asked Cadfael casually.

“Since his birth,” replied the old nun, her shrewd blue eyes revealing that she had not been fooled by his casual act. “A great chaser of skirts he was in his youth. No woman was safe from him, unless they were a hundred years old and had the face of a goat. One should not speak ill of the dead, but young Haminch was truly a menace. Blonde women were his preferred prey; before all else Saxon ones.”

“That explains both his wives, I suppose,” said Cadfael. “’Tis surprising, though, that by a life like that he hasn’t left a dozen or more bastards scattered across the shire.”

“And who says he hasn’t?” returned the old nun. “Surely not I!” Though I only know of one for certain.”

“Oh?” said Cadfael with interest. “Do tell me more.”

“Well, there was that tirewoman round the person of his first wife, that poor Urfried, when she had first fallen ill,” said Sister Alphonse thoughtfully. “Some young cousin of hers, ‘twas said; a Saxon girl of great beauty, free-born yet penniless. Hamon could not keep his hands from her and got her with child; a son it was, they say, and a big, strong, lusty child at that.”

“But born on the wrong side of the brychan,” finished Cadfael. The old nun nodded.

“That he was. Still, for a couple of years they were allowed to stay in the house, as Haminch had no other children. When Urfried had finally born him a son, though, he cast the girl out, together with the child. Now that he had a son born in the right bed, he no longer wanted the bastard child – _or_ the mother – in his house.”

“Not a rare thing, unfortunately, though cruel enough,” said Cadfael, saddened yet not surprised. “What has become of them?”

“They fled to Gerta’s mother, who lived in a small hut on Abbey grounds, as her late husband had been one of the Abbey’s foresters,” replied Sister Alphonse. “What turn their life might have taken later, I cannot tell. It has been more than twenty years ago… twenty-four, most likely. Perchance Lord Quadraria can learn more if he asks a few questions in Burton-upon-Trent, or in the Abbey itself,” she gave Cadfael a shrewd look. “It was he who sent you to me to ask about Haminch, was he not?”

“No,” replied Cadfael truthfully. “I offered. I thought if any-one, you would be able to tell me some of the things his wife never would.”

“She is a loyal wife,” agreed Sister Alphonse, “but I believe she knew more about Haminch‘s past than she would admit.”

“Most wives do,” said Cadfael, “even if their husbands think they have fooled them.”

Sister Alphonse grinned at that, broadly, wickedly.

“Men like to believe that we women are fools,” she declared. “Fortunately, we women _know_ that it’s the men who are fools. But,” she added, turning her attention back to serious business, “all that won’t bother Master Haminch any longer. He is ready, and so are we. Why don’t you come with me to my workshop and show me how to make that ointment of hog fat? The one you treated Sister Alumna’s rash with? It works wonders; much more so than the salve of calendula petals we use.”

“Willingly,” said Cadfael, only too happy to share more of his knowledge with someone as skilled as knowledgeable as Farewell’s herbalist. “How is Sister Alumna doing anyway? Is she having difficulties finding her place here?”

“Well, she still looks at one like a frightened hare when spoken to, but her cheeks are slowly getting some colour,” replied the old nun, giving him another one of those shrewd looks. “You have a personal interest in her fate? She doesn’t look like a kinswoman of yours; she’s not Welsh.”

Cadfael shook his head. “No, not mine. She’s the niece of our Brother Infirmarer, and I would like to bring him some good news about her, as he worries for her very much.”

“Tell him he needs not to worry any more,” said Sister Alphonse. “Between us, Sister Benedicta and I shall take care of the girl. I’m considering teaching her my craft; she does show some interest in herbal lore.”

Cadfael nodded. “She would spend hours in my workshop as a child, every time her parents visited Brother Edmund. She always wanted to be an ‘herb sister’, as she called it. Edmund will be greatly relived to know that she is finally in good hands.”

“Then he can breathe freely again,” said Sister Alphonse. “We shall treat the child gently. Now, where have I put that hog’s fat again?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Alvrich de Quadraria returned to the priory after _Vespers_ , as promised, and asked Brother Cadfael to Mother Patrice’s parlour to discuss the state of the investigation with him. The prioress joined them, anxious to hear what kind of headway they might have made.

“Well, Brother?” asked the knight. “What have you learned?”

“I have some names for you, my lord,” replied Cadfael. “Perchance another vengeful son even, albeit one born out of wedlock. For it seems that thirty or so years ago, then-young Master Haminch took the tirewoman of his first wife to his bed and left her with a child. Then, when his lawful heir was born, he cast mother and child out, not having any more use for a bastard.”

The sharp brown eyes of the prioress widened hearing that, but she did not say a word. Nor did she seem surprised. She was an experienced woman, despite having spent most of her life in cloister. Few things could still surprise her.

“You promised me names,” said Alvrich de Quadraria. Cadfael nodded.

“The name of the mother is – or _was_ , in case she shouln’t be alive anymore – Gerta. Her father was one of the Abbey foresters at Modwennestow, in Burton. When Haminch cast her and her son out, Gerta returned to her widowed mother, who was still living in a small hut on the Abbey ground. More Sister Alphonse could not tell me.”

“Not even the name of the child?” asked the knight. “A boy, wasn’t it?”

“No, not even the name of the boy,” sighed Cadfael. “It was all a long time ago. That child, if still alive, must be a grown man of thirty by now.”

“Still the answers can – and must – be found somewhere in Burton,” said the knight. “Would you mind to ride over there and ask questions for me, Brother? They would be more readily answered if a monk of the same cowl asked them than an outsider like me.”

“And how would I explain my presence and my questions there?” asked Cadfael. “I’ll go readily if you want me, but I need an excuse.”

“I can help with that,” said Mother Patrice. “I was planning to send Sister Eata to Modwennestow Abbey to borrow some books for copying. I would be sleeping better if one of our own brothers could accompany her.”

Alvrich de Quadraria looked at Cadfael askance. “Sounds the perfect excuse to me. What do you say, Brother?”

“I’ll send two of the older, more experienced grooms with you,” added the prioress. “The two of you should be safe enough – from masterless men as well as from ill-meant gossip. We need those books to get our copying business on the way.”

“Do you have enough copyists to do that?” asked Cadfael in surprise.

The prioress nodded. “Young Sister Edburga has a good, steady hand; and we can count on the work of Brother Godric, too.”

“The hermit?” Alvrich de Quadraria was a little surprised, understandably enough. Hermits were not supposed to work with other people.

“Yes. He has a very neat hand and great love for books,” said Mother Patrice. “True, he cannot leave his hut to come to the scriptorium, but he can work in his own cell if we provide him with the necessities, and thus earn his keeping; to which he has already given his consent.”

“Brother Godric is a most amiable young man,” said Cadfael thoughtfully.

That earned him a sharp look from Alvrich de Quadraria. “Too amiable for your comfort, Brother?”

“I don’t know,” replied Cadfael. “But something about him just doesn’t add up. I wish I knew what. Perhaps we’ll learn more in Burton. Have your men found young Master Hamo in the village, then?”

Alvrich de Quadraria shook his head. “Not yet; and that is odd. No-one seems to have seen him after he had left the guest hall for the village.”

“Can we be certain that he went to the village in the first place?” asked Cadfael. “Or was that just something he told his father’s groom to get him off his track?”

“That’s what I am about to find out,” answered the knight. “I shall question this Sweyn next, while one of my men is going down to the village to talk to the tavern owner. You’re welcome to join me, Brother.”

“I think I will,” said Cadfael. “The sight of my habit sometimes encourages people to tell the truth.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“Quickly!” said Brother Godric to Hamo de Hammerwich. “Hide in the chapel again! Someone is coming.”

Hamo clambered behind the altar in a great hurry, just in time ere someone would enter the hut. It was a num, but not the mute one who had brought the hermit his meals. This one was shorter, more squarely built and, by the calm sound of her voice, somewhat older, too.

Brother Godric rose from his stool respectfully. “Yes, Sister, what can I do for you?”

“I’m Sister Eata, recently put in charge of the scriptorium,” answered the nun. “I’m told you had agreed to copy some books for us?”

“I have,” Brother Godric released a tightly held breath. “Have you brought me a book I am supposed to copy?”

“Yes,” the nun handed him a slender tome, beautifully bound in gilded leather. “This is a Latin translation of Saint John Chrysostom’s seventeen remaining letters to the deaconess Olympias; a rare and precious book, a loan from the lord bishop, which we need to hand back as soon as possible.”

“An interesting choice for a nunnery,” commented Brother Godric softly.

Sister Eata shrugged. “Why would it be? We women might not be respected the way our mothers have been at the beginning of the Church, but that doesn’t mean we should forget about our heritage. And as I was told that you are a great admirer of Saint John Chrysostom, I hoped you would not mind copying his letters, even if they might sound a little… odd in the ears of a man today.”

“I don’t mind at all, Sister, thank you,” Brother Godric caressed the gilded table of the book reverently. “It surprises me, though, that you would not choose to copy them yourself, as they were addressed to a holy woman of great renown.”

“I would, but I cannot, not right now,” explained Sister Eata. “I’ll leave for Burton tomorrow, to ask for the loan of some more books from Modwennestow Abbey, and _this_ book needs to be copied at once.”

“When you reach the Abbey, ask for Brother Hyacinth, the librarian,” suggested the hermit. “Give me my regards; he used to like me and my handwriting, and might be more welcoming to you than he would otherwise. He does not like to hand out his precious books, not even to other monastics.”

“I shall do so, and thank you for the advice,” said the nun. “If you are certain that copying a book meant for a woman would not disturb you, I’ll send the necessary tools over to you before I leave.”

“I’d gladly copy any book for you to earn my keeping here,” replied Brother Godric. “I prefer to work for what I’m given; even if it’s given freely, out of generosity.”

Sister Eata shook her head in tolerant amusement. “You are the oddest mix of humility and stubborn pride that I’ve ever seen,” she said, “but I like that. I believe we shall be able to work together well enough.”

“I thought I was supposed to work alone,” said the hermit mildly. “That would be the key to my vocation, after all.”

“That may be so,” answered Sister Eata, “but unless you seek refuge on a lonely island where no ships would moor, you shall never do anything truly alone,” her gold-flecked blue-grey eyes swept the inside of the hut with one knowing look, taking in all the sparse details. “However, if you decide to change your living arrangements, you should be more thorough in covering your tracks.”

Brother Godric followed her gaze and spotted with sudden fright the discarded cottee of his… _guest_ thrown over the bench carelessly.

“Worry not,” said the nun. “I shan’t betray you. Nor do I ask whom you are hiding here and why. But if you accept a piece of advice from me: you should not do it on your own. Lord Quadraria is a sharp-minded, thorough man. He will find out what you are doing, and then you’ll have a few very uncomfortable questions to answer.”

Brother Godric shook his head unhappily. “Why me?” he lamented. “I never wanted to be involved in anything like this. All I wanted was a little peace.”

“But you _are_ involved now,” said Sister Eata. “And it would be better for you to come out with the truth voluntarily than being found out by the men of law.”

“I cannot!” protested the young hermit. “I’ve given sanctuary; though I fear Lord Quadraria won’t consider my modest chapel a sacred enough place to respect it the same way he would respect a great Abbey church. Still, I cannot go back on my promise!”

Sister Eata contemplated that or a moment.

“In that case, you would best set your trust in Brother Cadfael,” she said. “If any-one, he might be able to help you.”

“I cannot…” Brother Godric began, but the nun interrupted him.

“Think about it. You have time ‘til we return from Modwennestow Abbey,” and with that, she inclined her head and left.

“Oh, no,” said Brother Godric softly, all blood vanishing from his face ‘til it became chalk white. “When you return from Modwennestow Abbey, all will be laid out in the open, and the questions I shall have to answer will be worse than you imagine, Sister. I very much doubt that Brother Cadfael – or indeed any-one else – would still be able to help me.”


	10. Old Grudges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vox angelica is an organ stop, giving a gentle tremolo effect; it means “the voice of the angels”. This story takes place after the sixteenth novel, “The Heretic’s Apprentice”, but before the seventeenth, “The Potter’s Field”.

**CHAPTER NINE – OLD GRUDGES**

Cadfael and Alvrich de Quadraria went down to the stables, where the servants of the guests got their place to sleep, to speak with the late Master Haminch’s groom.

“He’s back there,” said the stable boy of the priory, a bright-eyed, tow-haired boy by the name of Bened. “And a sour, ill-humoured old fellow he is, always in a foul mood.”

“Not like you, I see,” said Cadfael, as indeed, the boy seemed to be of a sunny disposition.

Bened shrugged. “Nothin’ has ever got better from people walking around with long faces,” he replied lightly.

Cadfael nodded. “That is the right approach on the affairs of this world,” he said in approval. “I assume you like your work here, then?”

Bened shrugged again. “I do, but I shall have to look for new employment, soon. I’ve turned twelve last month and I shouldn’t be allowed to work for the nuns any longer. They’re only keeping me because my mother’s one of the lay sisters.”

“Your mother?” repeated Cadfael. He had not met any of the lay sisters yet and by having seeing them from afar, he could not quite decide which one might have been the boy’s mother.

“They call her Sister Jehane now,” explained Bened. “My father was one of the nuns’ tenants, but he died two years ago, and me too young to work on the fields on my own… the sisters took in us both. I like working with the horses here and shall be heartily sorry to leave, but what can I do? I’m too old to stay.”  
  
“If you’re as good at working with horses as you like them, seek me out in my manor at High Meadow,” said the knight. “I can always do with good stable hands around my beasts.”

The boy’s face lit up, making his freckles positively glow. “Thank you, my lord! Gladly I will!”

“And now that it’s settled,” said Alvrich de Quadraria,” let’s find our man Sweyn.”

Cadfael followed him readily, not the least surprised by the offer the knight had made the boy. Young Bened was big and well-made for his twelve years and clearly not afraid either of the horses or of making his hands dirty by mucking out the stables. He had a wholesome air about him, to that the good beasts felt drawn; he would never have any difficulties with barn animals. And working in one of Alvrich de Quadraria’s manors, he would have the chance to visit his mother from time to time. ‘Twas a good arrangement for both sides. The knight clearly knew how to pick his men and did not hesitate to make quick decisions.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
They found Master Haminch’s groom in the back of the stables, as the boy had said. Sweyn was older than they would have expected, lean and wiry, with a face like the bole of an oak, and with an air of sullen resignation about him that came to full effect after the boy’s brightness. He got to his feet respectfully enough when the knight and the elderly monk entered, but in every single one of his movements, there seemed to be ill-veiled resistance.

“My lord Quadraria,” he said with a curtly nod. “Brother. How may I be of service?”

There was something exaggerated in his manners, as if he would purposely drive home his status as a bondsman, with the result of seeming quite belligerent by doing so. The knight felt his hackles rise. _This_ was the sort of servant most likely to turn on his master and murder him for some old injustice, true or imaginary.

“We need to ask you some questions about Master Haminch,” he said. “How long have you been in his service?”

“Sixteen years and eight months,” replied the groom. “Ever since he took my freedom.”

His voice was even, albeit a bit rough, but the glint in his deep-set eyes spoke of an old, long-held grudge. A festering wound that had never got the chance to heal. There had been no love lost between him and his master, that much was abundantly clear.

“However did _that_ happen?” asked Cadfael.

Sweyn turned to him, as if expecting more understanding from a monk, apparently also of common stock, as from a knight born noble.

“How does it _always_ happen, Brother?” he answered the question with one of his own. “I was born free, but a younger son in a holding way too small to feed us all. So I left it whole for my brother, who had a wife and children to consider, and took a villein yardland from the old Hamon de Hammerwich, father of Haminch, in Bishop de Clinton’s demesne, that had fallen out of heirs.”

“Did you take it on villein tenure?” asked Cadfael. “To do the usual duties for it and all?”

Sweyn nodded his grizzled head.

“I did, Brother. But no-one ever doubted my status as a free man, as I was doing villein service of my own undertaking. So when the old Hamon died, I thought myself free to go elsewhere and seek out other employment, as I never wished to work for his son.”

“Why not?” Alvrich de Quadraria interjected.

Sweyn shrugged, his eyes narrowing as he hung after his memories.

“He always had a foul temper, even more so when full of ale. And he _was_ full of ale, more often than not, back in those years. A frequent visitor in the taverns, he was. Always chasing after serving wenches; no woman was ever safe of him; the least the blonde ones… and his newly-wed wife sitting at home, alone, raising the son of his first wife. Such a fine lady Dame Astola is, so much above him, and he treated her so badly… I did not want to stay in such a household, and I thought I can leave at will.”

“Yet that was not so,” said Cadfael quietly.

Sweyn shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Haminch brought suit that I was villein, having done villein service, albeit voluntarily, for the land I held. The court, not wanting to curtail Bishop de Clinton’s interests in any way – it was his land, after all – found that it was so…”

“… and you were bound, however free-born you had been,” Cadfael finished for him. “I imagine you took it hard, being used to be a free man.”

“That I did, Brother,” confessed Sweyn with a grim nod of his head. “It wasn’t the work, you see. I always tended to the land – or to the good beasts around the manor – with love. But I was a free man, doing work of my own choice; I never _dreamed_ of losing my freedom… until it _was_ lost.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“A painful picture that he’s drawn, yet not an unusual one in these days,” said Cadfael thoughtfully, walking back to the guest hall of the cloister with Alvrich de Quadraria. “Many and many a one has found himself falling in the same trap, unfortunately.”

Alvrich de Quadraria shrugged. As a landed lord who had never had to face such perils, he had a great deal less understanding for the groom’s situation.

“Haminch clearly believed he was doing no more than his right,” he said, “and the law agreed with him. I did not know him well – I am fairly knew to these lands, as you know – but his neighbours, above all Robert the reeve, say he would never have wilfully cheated any man. He did, however, stand fast on his own dues.”

“A steadfast attitude that, as we’ve seen, had won him quite a few bitter enemies,” Cadfael pointed out.

The knight nodded reluctantly. “True enough. Wherever we look, we see nothing but motivation: the groom, the wife, the son…”

“Which one?” asked Cadfael shrewdly.

The knight frowned. “What do you mean, Brother?”

“ _Which_ son?” clarified Cadfael. “There is Hamo, born in the right bed and therefore the rightful heir, with an understandable grievance against a father who’s given half his inheritance away. And there’s the other one, born out of wedlock a couple of years earlier. The one we still know nothing of. Not even his name. _His_ grievance may be even worse, and it would be every bit as understandable.”

“Greed or hatred,” said Alvrich de Quadraria thoughtfully. “Both things that could drive a man to murder.”

“Or a woman,” reminded him Cadfael.

The knight raised a doubtful eyebrow at that. “Was it not you who said that Dame Astola would not have it in her to do such violence?”

“Not with her own hands,” Cadfael agreed. “She could have had help, though: a man who is devoted enough to her to do it in her stead.”

Alvrich de Quadraria nodded slowly.

“Which brings the stepson and the groom back into the picture,” he said. “She admitted herself that she got along well enough with Hamo; and the groom obviously admires her. They could also have been in it together, all three of them.”

“They could,” admitted Cadfael, “although neither Hamo nor Sweyn strikes me as someone capable of weaving such an intricate net. And Dame Astola has grown too weary of her entire marriage to care much any longer.”

“So who’s done it then?” asked the knight. “Do you have a candidate?”

“I am not certain,” replied Cadfael. “I have the feeling that we’re overlooking something. Something of importance. There is a piece of this tale we have not heard yet, and my instinct tells me it has something to do with this mysterious bastard son. Perhaps in Burton Abbey I’ll learn more about him.”

“That would be helpful; we don’t know a thing about him,” the knight agreed. “You believe then that _he_ had something to do with the death of Master Haminch?”

“I believe that old sins cast long shadows, my lord,” answered Cadfael. “And there _were_ sins in the past of Master Haminch, as we know. But perchance there are other secrets about him; secrets that we don’t yet know. Secrets dark enough to make him so frightened for his soul that he would sacrifice his son’s future to escape damnation.”

“And you hope to unravel those secrets in Burton Abbey?” Alvrich de Quadraria asked.

“Right now, that is our only promising track,” said Cadfael with a sigh.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Brother Cadfael and Sister Eata left for Burton early in the next morning, right after _Terce_ , in the company of Brother Mark and one of Alvrich de Quadraria’s grooms, a big, well set-up young fellow of agreeable disposition. The young squire had been born and grown up in Burton-upon-Tent, and thus was the best guide they could have wished for.

It wasn’t a long journey, perhaps half a day on horseback, if they rode at a measured speed. The horses, too, were courtesy of Lord Quadraria, as Bishop de Clinton had taken the ones they had ridden on their way to Farewell with him upon his departure. But the steeds from the High Meadows very every bit as excellent as the bishop’s had been, Cadfael found. He said so, and the youth puffed up his chest in pride on his lord’s behalf.

“My Lord Quadraria brought Arabian horses from Spain to cross-breed them with our English steeds,” he explained. “As you can see, the results are most satisfying.”

Cadfael admitted that it was so, and they continued their journey at a leisurely speed.

It was on the early afternoon that they reached Burton-upon-Trent, a town of middling size and importance, on the east bank of the River Trent. It was a lively, colourful place, with its wattled fences that could hardly be called town walls. Some of the people going in and out the gates after their daily business recognized the young squire, whose name was apparently Goscelin, and greeted him in a friendly manner. He returned the jovial greetings in kind. As the son of a lesser landholder, he was all but on the same level as the free men of the town, and clearly well-liked among them.

He led the two brothers and the nun to the wooden bridge crossing the River Trent at a point where I would meet the road leading directly to the Abbey gate. The beginnings of a new, stone bridge could be clearly seen but a few yards further down, but Cadfael judged that it would not be finished for quite some time yet. Years, most likely. Still, it was the promise of an even livelier coming and going between Abbey and town, a chance to make trade faster and easier, of which, no doubt, both sides would benefit greatly.

“From here you can ride directly to the Abbey, Brother,” said Goscelin to Cadfael. “I shall stay in the town, with the leave of my Lord Quadraria, as I have kin here whom I have not seen for some time. Send for me when you are ready to return to Farewell, and God’s blessing be on your work here.”

With that, he turned around his horse and rode off, back towards the town. Cadfael did not mind his departure. As friendly and eager to please the young man was, a monk could talk to the poor better without him parting over his shoulders. The common folk were wary of representatives of the secular power listening on their conversations.

“Well then,” said Brother Mark, wok, as the bishop’s deacon, got to make the decisions, despite being the youngest of them all, “on we go. We might reach the Abbey before _None_ if we hurry up a little, and I would like to pay Abbot Geoffrey my respects.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The Benedictine Abbey of St. Mary and St. Modwen, the most important of the Staffordshire religious houses, stood on the west bank of the River Trent like a small fortress. Its precincts occupied an area bound on the east by the river itself, and by the highroad to Lichfield on the west. The Abbey church – recently re-built and enriched by an elegant new tower, roofed with lead, over the choir – thanks to the efforts of its ambitious abbot Geoffrey, stood on the northern end of the Abbey ground. The cloister and the conventual buildings lay immediately south of it.

Further to the south and west was a walled courtyard with an outer court beyond. The latter could be approached from the west through the gatehouse, toward which the three monastics were currently riding. South-east of the cloister and next to the river was a detached building that Cadfael’s experienced eyes recognized as the infirmary.

All in all, it was an impressive house for a small convent that had never counted more than thirty brothers during the near two hundred years of its existence. Twice as many could have dwelt there – if not more. Abbot Geoffrey had perhaps been aiming at a larger community by trying to make the place more attractive through rebuilding it.

If that had truly been his plan, it had yet to work. As far as Brother Mark could tell, the number of the brothers had not changed much in a century and a half – and he ought to know. The episcopal archives of Lichfield kept carefully penned reports of all previous visitations.

Therefore none of them was surprised to see that the keeper of the Abbey gate was not a monk but a lay officer: a big, burly man with coarse, curly brown hair and obviously blessed with the patience of a saint. His name was Esric, and he was clearly pleased to receive visitors from another Benedictine house.

“Word of your coming has reached us, Sister,” he looked at Eata respectfully. “Brother Precentor, who is in charge of the Abbey’s books, is waiting for you.”

He whistled to a young groom, not older than perhaps ten or twelve years, instructing him to escort the sister to the _scriptorium_ , where apparently the books were kept. Learning who the other two were, he quickly directed Brother Mark to the Abbot’s parlour and Cadfael to the infirmary – which, indeed, turned out to be the detached building down at the river.

“Brother Hospitaller, who also works as our infirmarer, will gladly exchange knowledge with you, I deem,” he said.

The infirmary of Burton Abbey was a fairly large and well-furnished one for such a small convent, speaking once again of the considerable wealth of the house. It consisted of a long hall, with a double row of red-curtained beds – five on each side – along the walls, a small chapel at one end and the workroom of Brother Infirmarer on the other one, where he kept his medicines, bandages and suchlike.

Brother Engelard, who served as both the hospitaller _and_ the infirmarer of the Abbey, was a small, balding, bird-like man of perhaps sixty years, with eyes as round and bright as a robin’s and a crippled left hand that, however, did not seem to hinder him in his work the least. He greeted Cadfael enthusiastically, dragging him into his small herb garden at once, where they had a delightful conversation about healing herbs and the proper way to grow them. They attended to _None_ with the convent, then Brother Engelard escorted Cadfael to the guest hall where he assigned him and Brother Mark a modest little place to sleep.

“It is not much, but it is offered heartily,” he said apologetically. “We used the forester’s cottage as guest house for our own brethren in recent years, but since we took in Master William, we no longer can do that.”

Cadfael looked at him askance. “Master William?”

“William of St Albans,” explained Brother Engelard. “A worthy man of Burton who regularly serves as lay witness for the Abbey charter. He was given _procuratio_ , the food and drink of one monk, upon receiving land at Stretton from Abbot Geoffrey, as well as dwelling rights in the forester’s cottage until he dies or chooses to join our fraternity; in which case the _procuratio_ would pass to his wife.”

Cadfael nodded. It was a time-honoured practice in Benedictine houses to care for the old or the widowed; they did the same in Shrewsbury for selected benefactors of the house.

“This forester, whom the cottage once belonged,” he began in a neutral tone, “I heard that his widow was allowed to stay there, even after his death. Is that true?”

“Why, of course!” replied Brother Engelard. “That poor woman had no-one else to turn to. Here she had work in the wash-house and a roof above her head. And a good thing it was, too, for so her daughter had somewhere to flee, after she had been used so shamefully in the manor where she had served.”

All this sounded very familiar; Cadfael’s ears perked up with interest. Now he was getting closer to the truth.

“In which way had she been badly used?” he asked.

“The girl, Gerta was her name, served in the house of Haminch de Hammerwich as the tirewoman of his first wife,” Brother Engelard was obviously warming up to the topic. “She has even borne a by-blow from her master. But after the birth of a legitimate son, he threw her out of the house. So the girl had no other choice than to come here, to her mother. We gave her work and shelter, and allowed the boy to learn, together with our wards.”

“What has become of her?” asked Cadfael. Brother Engelard shrugged.

“She lived here for many years, working in the wash-house like her mother… until about six years ago.”

“What happened six years ago?” Cadfael tried to remain patient. Brother Engelard seemed to have a somewhat… meandering mind, but one that kept ample memories of past events.

“No-one knows,” admitted the monk of Burton. “She was found with a broken head, in front of her own hearth.”

“Murdered?” asked Cadfael. Brother Engelard shrugged again.

“That I cannot tell, Brother. The men of the lord sheriff said that she had fallen and hit her head on the edge of the hearth.” There was doubt in his voice, though, Cadfael found.

“But you do not think so, do you?”

“Oh, I do believe that she had an unlucky fall,” said Brother Engelard. “But there was also a fresh bruise on her cheek; a truly bad one. And that made me wonder why she had taken that fall.”

Cadfael was beginning to see where the other monk was going with that.

“Someone could have hit her,” he commented.

Brother Engelard nodded. “I know. The sheriff’s men asked everyone, but they found no witnesses. Well, none save old Brother Laurentius, who insisted that he had heard a loud quarrel from the forester’s cottage that night.”

Cadfael raised an eyebrow. “And no-one listened to him?”

Brother Engelard sighed. “Brother Laurentius often sees and hears things that only happen in his own mind, Brother. He is ancient, and, to be honest, more than a little senile.”

“I see,” said Cadfael, a little disheartened. “I would still like to hear what tale he may have to tell; for it could help to find someone ruthless enough to murder a man on sacred ground.”

“You can try,” replied Brother Engelard. “He must be in the vegetable garden somewhere. Since he lost most of his eyesight and cannot keep the bees any longer, he has been helping out there. He will be delighted to have some company, I deem.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Following the infirmarer’s instructions, Cadfael found the vegetable garden, where Brother Kitchener grew his turnips and parsnips, carrots and leek and other selected foodstuffs meant for the abbot’s table, easily. Presently, it was deserted, save from a lonely figure in a rusty black habit doing some weeding at the far end of it.

Mindful of the turnip cabbages stretching their broad leaves over the path between beets – they were a sort he had never seen before – Cadfael carefully made his way to the lone worker.

“Brother Laurentius?” he asked when coming within earshot of the old monk who seemed lost in the cowl presumably made for a much larger person. It was kirtled above his bony knees, revealing bare legs, brown from having been exposed to sun and wind and thin like dry sticks.

The ancient monk did not reply, continuing his weeding with skeletal hands that showed surprising strength nonetheless. Clearly, he was not only short-sighted to the extreme but quite deaf, too. Cadfael cleared his throat and called the old one’s name again, this time with a raised voice. Now Brother Laurentius heard him and turned around with a delighted, almost child-like smile upon his dry face; a smile that revealed that he no longer had any teeth, either.

“Forgive me, Brother,” he said in a voice high and hollow with age and loud like those of impaired hearing. “I did not hear you coming.” Then he straightened as much as his back, bent from old age, would allow, and stared at Cadfael, straining his watery blue eyes, trying to recognize him. “Do I know you?”

“No,” Cadfael was quick to reassure him. “I am from Shrewsbury Abbey; just visiting.”

“Our Lady be praised,” Brother Laurentius was clearly revealed. “I feared memory would fail me again. It happens in these days, Brother; it happens more often than not. Events from the past I still recall clearly, but I can seldom remember what happened yesterday or the day before.”

“Still, you seem to do excellent work here,” Cadfael looked around in the well-tended garden. “A rare sort of turnip cabbages you grow; I never saw the likes of them.”

“They are a rare sort from Flanders,” Brother Laurentius revealed, eager and happy to share his knowledge with a kindred soul. “I asked Father Abbot’s leave to get them some six years ago, when I started to work in the gardens; I knew them from my youth. Brother Kitchener was not pleased first, for they need more room and a lot more water than the common sort, but when he saw how they never get stringy when cooked or steamed, he was glad to have them, after all. Even if they require more work. And Father Abbot has grown quite fond of them, too.”

Cadfael nodded distractedly, his mind occupied with problems beyond the advantages of the new, Flemish turnips, although he briefly considered asking the old monk for seedlings. Abbot Radulfus’ cook, who took great pride in his work, would most likely appreciate them.

But then he put away that thought for later. Right now he had other things to ask Brother Laurentius; things that could mean life or death for someone. Life if they were innocent; the rope if they were guilty.

“Six years you have been in charge of your turnips?” he asked.

Brother Laurentius nodded with so much eagerness that the faded skull cap all but fell off his thinning white hair.

“That I have, Brother. When my eyes became too clouded to work with the bees any longer, Brother Prior first sent me to work in the guest hall; but, as you saw before, my hearing is not what it used to be, either, and the guests complained about me all the time,” that seemed to sadden him a little, but mixed with tolerant forgiveness. “I can understand them, you see. It must have been a bother, always having to call twice and thrice, until I finally heard them.”

“But you _did_ hear the quarrel in the forester’s cottage the night poor Gerta died, did you not?” asked Cadfael, thankful for the opportunity.

Brother Laurentius tilted his head to the side, bird-like, and tried to remember.

“I have indeed. I came from the guest hall, trying to reach the church in time for _Compline_ ; I was a little late, you see, so I made a shortcut that led by the forester’s cottage. And _then_ I heard them, shouting. They were… quite loud.”

“Who were… they?” inquired Cadfael carefully. “Gerta and… who was the other one? Did you know the voice?”

“No, not the voice,” admitted Brother Laurentius. “But I saw him when he left. He stormed by me like a man possessed by the devil itself!”

“Who _was_ the man, Brother?” asked Cadfael persistently.

“I cannot be sure, of course,“ replied the old monk, “as I did not see his face. But his shape, the way he moved forth like an enraged bull… I do believe it was the man in whose house Gerta used to serve in her youth. What was his name again? Hamo… Hammon… something like that.”

“Haminch?” guessed Cadfael, her mind working frantically. “Master Haminch de Hammerwich?”

Brother Laurentius nodded eagerly. “Yes, that is it” A wealthy and well-respected man from a nearby manor. Held it for Bishop de Clinton, I think.”

“And the one who sired her son and then threw them both out of the house,” said Cadfael thoughtfully. “I wonder what has become of the boy. He must be a grown man by now.”

“He used to work in the _scriptorium_ for Brother Petrus,” said Brother Laurentius, clearly delighted to be able to tell him something he had not known before. “Had a fine, steady hand, Brother Petrus always said. But he left us after the death of his mother, and who could blame him for that? Brother Petrus was disappointed, though.”

More he could not tell, not even the name of Gerta’s son, and Cadfael soon took his leave from him, leaving him to his weeding. He decided to pay the _scriptorium_ and its master a visit. Perhaps there he would finally learn something of importance.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The _scriptorium_ of Burton Abbey, where all the precious books were being kept, was a room of middling size, full of light and smelling of old parchment, under the supreme rule of Brother Petrus: the precentor, who also served as the almoner of the house. Three other monks were working there at their desks, lining leaves of parchment, colouring pre-drawn illuminations to already copied pages, or preparing finished copies for the book-binders, respectively.

After a moment of observation, Cadfael spotted Sister Eata, deep in conversation with a stocky, short-sighted person of perhaps fifty years and of a somewhat distracted nature, who had thick, iron-grey hair and pale blue eyes – clearly the master of this small realm of knowledge. They were conversing in fluent Latin, something only true and dedicated scholars could do with such apparent ease. Cadfael, who had come late to cloistered life and thus his Latin was sporadic at best, limited to understanding it in written form, felt a healthy amount of respect for them both.

It was the nun who saw Cadfael first and steered the precentor’s attention towards his presence with a light touch of her hand upon the good brother’s sleeve. Brother Petrus glanced up in surprise; then he laid the book they were studying to the side and rose to greet the new visitor.

“Brother Cadfael I presume?” he said simply. “Are you looking for an herbal? I understand that you are the herbalist of our house in Shrewsbury; we have a few excellent copies here.”

Cadfael shook his head. “I thank you, Brother, but what I need right now is to ask you some questions.”

“About what?” asked the precentor, clearly at a loss what he could possibly help with.

“About a young man of a fine and steady hand who used to work here for you, up ‘til six years ago,” explained Cadfael.

“Oh, you mean Gerta’s son?” said Brother Petrus in surprise. “True, he did work here for quite a few years, and a shame it is that he left after his mother’s death. I always hoped we could persuade him to take the cowl among us, given enough time; he would have been such an asset for our fraternity. Scholarly-minded and not afraid of working hard; even though a bit stubborn for his own good.”

“Can you tell me where he has gone?” a vague idea began to take shape in Cadfael’s mind at the description of the young man, but he needed proof before he would adopt it.

Brother Petrus shook his head apologetically. “I fear I cannot, Brother. He never told anyone that he wanted to leave, not even upon accepting his last payment from Brother Cellarer.”

“Can you at least tell me his name, then?” asked Cadfael.

“Why of course,” replied Brother Petrus, glad to be of some small use at least. “He was called Garth; a Saxon name, and a rather barbaric one if you ask me, but Gerta and her parents were proud of their ancestors,” he gave Cadfael a shrewd, inquisitive glance. “Do you know someone by that name, Brother?”

“No,” answered Cadfael thoughtfully, “but it has been my experience that if a man feels it needful to change his name, he often chooses one that has something common with the old one.”

“Well, if you find him, you can tell him that he will be always welcome here, should he have enough of a vagabond’s life,” said Brother Petrus.

“I will,” promised Cadfael, “although I do not believe he would lead a life on the road. You said yourself that he was of scholarly mind; such people have a hang to stability.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“I know you, Cadfael,” said Brother Mark shrewdly as they were walking back from the Abbey Church – now restored to its resplendent glory thanks to the efforts of Brother Geoffrey – back to the guest hall. “You already know where that mysterious son has gone.”

“Say rather that I have a suspicion,” answered Cadfael. “But I would never accuse a potentially innocent man of murdering his own father, unless I have unquestionable proof that he has, in fact, done so. And I am far from certain at the moment.”

“I see,” Brother Mark gave his former mentor a thoughtful glance. “So, what are you going to do now? And what am I supposed to tell the lord bishop? He is most desirous to learn who has committed this most foul crime and see them punished. After all, it was a direct affront towards his authority.”

“I still believe that we may cast some light into this convulted crime yet,” replied Cadfael. “Tomorrow, when we return to Farewell, I shall confront my prime subject, and so God will, we might learn the truth.”

“We might indeed,” said Brother Mark, his clear grey eyes darkening with sorrow, “but will we like it, once it is revealed?”

To that Cadfael had no answer. In all honesty, he secretly feared it would _not_ be so.


	11. The Sins of the Father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vox angelica is an organ stop, giving a gentle tremolo effect; it means “the voice of the angels”. This story takes place after the sixteenth novel, “The Heretic’s Apprentice”, but before the seventeenth, “The Potter’s Field”.

**CHAPTER TEN – THE SINS OF THE FATHER**

Brother Ifan, the youngest of Farewell’s resident hermits, rose from his knees after a night spent in penitent vigilance. He had not gone back to his bed after _Matins_. Instead, he spent the hours remaining ‘til _Lauds_ before his small altar, praying to God, the Holy Virgin and all Welsh saints for guidance. For he had a heavy burden weighing upon his soul, and his heart was troubled.

Unlike his brethren, he came to this solitary life six years previously at a tender age, almost as a child. He was still fairly young, perhaps as much as twenty or twenty-three of years, perhaps even less. He had a beautiful singing voice, as sweet as a lark’s, but he only ever sang in the solitude of his cell, and even there only the psalms and the hymns of the office, which he knew all by heart, every single one of them.

No-one knew why he had chosen the life of a hermit, and that at such a young age. Wild guesswork suggested that he might have been a minstrel boy once, fleeing from the unsavoury interest of a wealthy and powerful patron. No-one knew anything for certain, though, and he never spoke about his past.

In truth, he never spoke _at all_ , if he could avoid it.  
  
He was a slender, small-boned young man, with wide Welsh cheekbones and large, dark eyes under a thick cap of smooth, raven-black hair like polished iron that was, curiously flecked with grey above his brow. Tonsured, too, like all clerics, but – again, unlike his brethren – he did not have a beard.

Rolling his shoulders to work the kinks out of his back, he considered his chances for the umpteenth time. On the one hand, he was supposed to tell the authorities about wheat he had seen and heard in the night Master Haminch had died. On the other hand, he did not want to accuse anyone of such a terrible sin; last of all one of his own brethren.

The fact that he would not have seen or heard anything had he not violated the Rule in that very night was not helping. True, he only wanted to help, but had he _not_ left his garden, against the Rule, he could pledge ignorance with a good conscience. As it was already late for _that_ , he had to decide what would be the right thing to do – and he found that decision woefully hard to make.

He had spent the last six years in the sole company of God and His saints, leaving the unpleasantness of the outside world far behind him. Never in those years had he missed human company. He had been content with his prayers and his garden and wanted for naught else. He should have hold to the Rule, instead of allowing himself to be moved by the fate of that poor, tormented rosebush.

There was no way around it, though. For the sake of justice, he _had_ to go to the authorities and tell them what he knew. It might save an innocent man from the gallows – or condemn a brother who might or might not be guilty. In which case he might as well pull the rope with his own hands.

He sighed. He needed guidance in this matter; now that he had realized what his duty was, he needed somebody to tell him _how_ to do it. Brother Rhodri would know. He was the worldliest, most experienced one among them.

Brother Ifan sighed again and prepared himself to violate the Rule for the second time in as many days: to leave his cell for something – _anything_ – else than to attend to Mass in Brother Rhodri’s small chapel.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Cadfael, Brother Mark and Sister Eata returned from Burton to Farewell in the late afternoon of the next day. The sister went directly to the _scriptorium_ to store the precious book borrowed from Burton safely, while the two monks met Alvrich de Quadraria in Mother Patrice’s Spartan little parlour. The prioress joined them shortly thereafter, anxious to learn what they might have heard.

“It seems certain, then, that Master Haminch had a hand in the death of his former mistress?” asked the knight.

Cadfael nodded. “It appears so, yes. Brother Laurentius might be almost blind and a little senile, but he knew the man well, and he has no reason to lie.”

“Therefore we have been granted a small fortune by a murderer,” said Mother Patrice heavily, “and we are perchance sheltering another murderer on our very grounds. One that took vengeance for the previous crime.”

The thought seemed to disturb her greatly. Her usually so healthy, rosy cheeks were pale and gaunt, and the dark rings shadowing her eyes spoke of sleepless nights.

“I do not believe that Master Haminch intended to murder that poor woman,” said Cadfael. “You have seen him, and so has Brother Mark; he was a man of short tempers, who had a hard time to keep his wrath under control. I believe the two had argued; then Master Haminch lost his temper and hit the woman, who took an unfortunate fall. Had she fallen in a different angle, she might still be alive.”

“Manslaughter, then,” judged Alvrich de Quadraria, “but still a life taken. And what happened in the hermit’s garden was clearly murder.”

“That it was,” Cadfael agreed readily, “albeit perhaps not a pre-meditated one, either.”

The knight frowned. “How that? He was murdered; strangulated from behind, in cold blood.”

“True,” allowed Cadfael, “but the murderer did not use a weapon prepared in advance. He used what he happened to have handy: the string of a purse, most likely. It was a spontaneous decision, albeit executed coldly and mercilessly.”

“Not quite something a young hothead like Hamo de Hammerwich would do,” commented Brother Mark quietly.

Cadfael shook his head. “Perhaps not, but we cannot be certain; not before we had the chance to speak with him. Remember, he was desperate; and desperate men do desperate things sometimes.”

“But why would he murder his father?” asked the prioress. “Only Master Haminch could have reversed his grant; he was of no use for Hamo _dead_.”

“Not if his goal was indeed to have the grant reversed; but what if he was simply so angry that all he wanted was to punish his father?” pointed out the knight. “To see him suffer?”

“That is possible but rather unlikely,” said Cadfael. “Such motivation would require a great deal of malevolence, which I doubt such a simple young man would possess.”

“What about the other son?” asked the knight. “The bastard that Master Haminch chased away, together with the mother, upon Hamo’s birth? Have you learned aught about him?”

“Not much,” admitted Cadfael. “His name was apparently Garth, and he worked for the _scriptorium_ in Burton as a copyist. He left after the death of his mother, and no-one has heard of him since then.”

“He could be hiding here, in plain sight, under a false name, though,” said the knight. Cadfael nodded.

“He could. But had he wished to take vengeance on his father, he could have done so many times during the last six years, without drawing so much attention.”

“You said yourself: it was _not_ a pre-meditated crime,” reminded him the knight. “Perhaps this was the first time they met, after he had left Burton. Or perhaps Master Haminch did or said something to rekindle the sparkle of hatred simmering under a calm surface.”

“All that is possible,” allowed Cadfael. “I still have the feeling, though, that there is something we have overlooked. Something important.”

“It would hep if we could find this mysterious bastard son,” said Alvrich de Quadraria sourly. “You do not happen to have a suspicion who he might be, Brother?”

“That is all I have: a suspicion and nothing more,” answered Cadfael heavily. “And I would not accuse a man of something I cannot prove. Bear with me another day or two, my lord; ‘tis my hope that I shall be able to find you some proof in that time.”

“So be it,” the knight rose. “Now I must go. Do see me off, Brother, and tell me more about your visit to Burton on my way to the stables.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Cadfael agreed readily, and the two of them took their leave from Mother Patrice and walked down from her parlour to the stables, between the cells of the hermits, while discussing what Cadfael had learned during his visit to Burton Abbey. Admittedly, it was not much, but he hoped to put the pieces together as soon as he had spoken to a few people in Farewell, he said.

They had just come as far as Brother Rhodri’s cell, when the hermit, working in his garden with gusto, called out to them.

“Brother Cadfael! My lord Quadraria! A moment of your time if I may ask?”

The two walked to the low fence, and the hermit clapped his hands together to remove the dirt from them.

“What can we do for you, Brother?” asked Cadfael.

“Not for me,” answered Brother Rhodri. “’Tis Brother Ifan you need to speak with. He has a heavy burden to offload from his soul.”

“Does this have anything to do with Master Haminch’s death?” inquired the knight.

Brother Rhodri shook his head. “’Tis not in my right to speak of that which I have been told in confession. But Brother Ifan is willing to speak with you, my lord, if you would be willing to go to him… in Brother Cadfael’s company. He is quite troubled and would benefit of the support of a brother.”

“He would perchance benefit from the presence of his confessor more,” said the knight, but Brother Rhodri shook his head.

“That might be so, my lord, but we are not allowed to visit each other, unless to attend to Mass or to provide the Last Rites. There has been enough violation of the Rule lately as it is.”

More he was not willing to reveal, saying that the rest was not his to tell, and thus Cadfael and Alvrich de Quadraria decided to go and see the youngest hermit and listen to what he felt needful to confess them.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Brother Ifan seemed like a deer caught in torchlight when they entered his cell: very young, very frightened and all but ready to bolt. Whatever burden he might be carrying, it clearly weighed heavily upon his conscience.

“My lord… Brother,” he said with considerable effort. “Thank you for coming to see me. I find that I cannot bear this knowledge any longer. I should have spoken up earlier, but…” he trailed off, very distraught, and wrung his hands in despair.

Alvrich de Quadraria glanced at Cadfael, urging him to speak to the youth. As a man of the Church, he had the better chance to get anything useful out of the hermit.

“Well, lad,” said Cadfael soothingly, “no need to chastise yourself about it, whatever it is. You have worked up the courage to speak, after all, and that is what counts. So do tell us – is this about the death of Master Haminch?” Brother Ifan nodded. “What do you know about it?”

“I… I was there, right before it happened,” whispered the hermit. “I know it was wrong, we are not supported to enter each other’s garden or cell, but I could not see that poor rose bush suffer any longer. Brother Godric does his best to care for it, but… he does not have a good hand with roses. I do.”

“So you slipped through the fence secretly to right the bush if you can,” Cadfael finished for him. Brother Ifan nodded.

“Brother, I did! I knew the bush would bloom tenfold after a proper pruning; it would have made brother Godric so glad that he has finally succeeded, after having tried so hard for years, and all in vain. No-one needed to know… and I would have done penance for violating the Rule, I swear!”

Cadfael shook his head ruefully. There was a reason why they said the road to Hell was paved with good intentions.

“But instead, you have arrived right on time to hear – or see – something disturbing,” he guessed. “Brother Ifan nodded again. “What _was_ it?”

“I saw _him_. I mean, Master Haminch,” clarified Ifan. “He was standing in Brother Rhodri’s garden, shouting at him. He… he accused Brother Godric of dreadful sins; of having had a… an adulterous affair with his lady wife, back in Burton, where he used to be an Abbey servant, bringing her books from Brother Precentor to read.”

“What did Godric answer to that?” asked Cadfael gently.

“He… he became terribly upset,” replied Ifan tonelessly. “He called Master Haminch a coward and a murderer; said that Master Haminch had murdered his mother, and was now selling his own son to poverty, just to buy absolution for that… that damnable soul of his,” the young hermit could barely form the blasphemous words. “He said that no matter what Master Haminch would do, the blood of Hertha… or Greta, I could not hear properly, he was speaking in such a low, dreadful voice… would always sully his hands and cry to heavens for vengeance.”

Cadfael and the knight exchanged meaningful looks. Now the random pieces were beginning to re-order themselves to a bigger picture. All this fit in quite well with the rumours Cadfael had heard in Burton.

“What did Master Haminch do then?” he asked.

“He… he just _broke_ ,” there was a curious mix of pity and awe in the young hermit’s voice. “Fell to his knees, right there, next to the rose bush and begged for forgiveness. He swore to reverse the grant to the nuns in the morning to make reparations…” he trailed off again.

“And Brother Godric?” pressed on the knight. “What did he answer?”

“He just stood in the doorway of his cell,” whispered Ifan. “Never even left. He told Master Haminch in that cold voice that there would be no forgiveness from him; and that the only reparation Master Haminch could do would be to…”

“To do _what_?” asked Alvrich de Quadraria impatiently.

“To _die_ ,” Brother Ifan’s voice was barely audible. “A life for a life, Godric said, would be the only way justice could be served. Then he turned on his heals and went back to his cell. He did not come out again.”

“And Master Haminch?” asked Cadfael after a lengthy pause.

“He remained there, in Godric’s garden, on his knees, weeping,” said Brother Ifan sadly. “I left then in a hurry. It had been an awful thing to witness, and I wanted to know naught else of it. I should never have gone against the Rule. Never.”

“Has anyone else heard what you have heard?” asked the knight, not concerned with the religious aspect of the problem. Brother Ifan shook his head.

“I doubt it. It was late; after _Compline_. The only one I saw was Sister Amadea, coming back from delivering alms, no doubt. But she would not know. She is not from this world.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“She could not tell us anything, even if she had seen and heard the quarrel,” elaborated Cadfael somewhat later, when they had left the distraught young hermit to his prayers. “She has taken a vow of silence – for a year, if memory serves me well. She is not allowed to speak with _anyone_.”

“And she holds to that vow of hers?” asked Alvrich de Quadraria thoughtfully. Cadfael nodded.

“Oh yes, she most certainly does. She has set her mind on sainthood so firmly that nothing and no-one can divert her from her chosen path.”

“You sound as if you would not approve,” remarked the knight.

“Truthfully, I do not,” answered Cadfael. “We are humankind and not angels; we should take it more comfortably, instead of storming the heavens at any price.”

“But surely, the ambition of achieving sainthood cannot be a fault,” exclaimed the knight in surprise. “Less so in a cloistered nun who has offered her life to the service of Our Lord.”

Cadfael shrugged. “It can, if the person with that lofty goal before their eyes follows their chosen path at the cost of others,” he said. “The Rule disapproves of extremes; and it has been my experience that such self-appointed saints usually lack _one_ significant mark of _true_ sainthood.”

“And that would be?” inquired Alvrich de Quadraria.

“Humility,” answered Cadfael simply.

“Oh,” said the knight, somewhat bewildered by that answer.

He might be one who took his faith seriously – he _had_ been a crusader, after all, and one who had followed his heart as much as he had followed his overlord – but humility was not something he would have given much thought. Apparently, even ex-crusaders had very a different view on virtue when one of them had chosen a cloistered life.

“Well, Brother, what do you suggest we do next then, since our resident saint is unlikely to talk to us?” he then asked.

“We could go to see Brother Godric right away,” replied Cadfael. “I wonder what _he_ may be willing to tell us.”

Alvrich de Quadraria found that a sensible idea, and so they turned to the right to enter Brother Godric’s refugium.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Brother Godric readily invited them into the small living space of his cell. As before, it was cluttered with books, pieces of vellum, pens, brushes, inkwells and other small utensils a scholar or a scribe – or both – would need. He himself seemed more collected than last time, though.

“I did not kill him,” he said calmly, before they could have asked him any question at all.

“Did not kill whom?” asked the knight.

“The man found dead in my garden. Master Haminch,” seeing their surprised faces, Brother Godric shrugged. “You are coming from Ifan. I suppose he must have heard my quarrel with the man. We were… somewhat loud in that night, and Ifan has been giving me mortified glances ever since.”

“So you do not deny having had a quarrel with Master Haminch?” Alvrich de Quadraria pressed the issue.

The hermit shrugged again. “What good would it do me to deny? Ifan clearly heard us, and so did, I suppose, the saintly Sister Amadea, for she has been even more disapproving of my mere existence than usual from that day on.”

“What reason could the good sister have to disapprove of you?” asked Cadfael in surprise.

The hermit gave him a wry smile; it made him look way too world-weary for his age.

“She disapproves of all of us,” he said with the faintest hint of irony in his voice. “I assume our human weakness affronts her saintly disposition. After all, she took her vow of silence partly to rub our noses into the fact that we break _our_ silence way too frequently… Brother Rhodri above all.”

Cadfael raised an eyebrow, for, honestly, in Brother Rhodri’s case there was a kernel of truth in Sister Amadea’s judgement.

“She disapproves of you all, and yet she brings you food day after day?” he asked.

“Certainly she does,” replied the hermit drily. “We must be shown how the Rule is to be followed, after all.”

Alvrich de Quadraria cleared his throat. “Brother Cadfael, we have come to discuss the death of Master Haminch. I think not that Sister Amadea’s piety would have anything to do with _that_.”

“You would be surprised, my lord, where everything – even piety – done by extremes can lead,” answered Cadfael grimly, remembering the ill-advised Brother Columbanus, who had found pious justification for murder. “But you are right. We _have_ come to discuss the death of Master Haminch – and how it had come to that. Brother Godric, I have learned a few things during my visit to Burton… things that make me wonder. You have left Burton to come here some six years ago, after the death of your mother, is that right?”

“It is, Brother,” replied the hermit simply. “After she died, the cottage granted to my grandsire went back to the Abbey, and I no longer had a place to live.”

“But that was not the only reason for you to leave, was it?” asked Cadfael gently. “You were an Abbey servant, and a well-liked one at that. The good brothers would have given you shelter had you wanted to stay, would they not?”

The hermit nodded. “They would. But I feared that if I stayed in Burton, one day the grief and anger would gain the upper hand in my heart, and I may kill someone in my wrath.”

Alvrich de Quadraria stared at the young man doubtfully. The quiet, subdued Brother Godric was the last person he would have expected to kill anyone in a fit of rage. Cadfael, however, nodded in understanding.

“You know who has killed your mother,” he said. It was not a question, but Brother Godric nodded nonetheless.

“I do, Brother; I always did. I also know that he did not mean to hurt her. But he always had a fearsome temper and a heavy hand, and so… she had taken an unlucky fall.”

“You knew it was an unfortunate accident and yet you feared you might kill the man for it?” clarified Alvrich de Quadraria. Brother Godric nodded. “Why?”

“For I have inherited the same fearsome temper from him,” Brother Godric paused. “I thought you have figured out already; Haminch de Hammerwich was my father.”

A dull noise followed his simple declaration, coming from the small chapel; as if someone had accidentally turned over something heavy in there. The knight instinctively reached for his sword, but Brother Godric just sighed and shook his head.

“Come forth, Hamo,” he said. “There is no use to hide any longer.”

And before the stunned eyes of Cadfael and Alvrich de Quadraria, a rumpled and dishevelled Hamo de Hammerwich came out of the hermit’s chapel looking at them sullenly.

The knight was the first to regain his ability to speak.

“How long has this man been here?” he demanded.

“Since the morning after Master Haminch had been found,” answered the hermit. “He came to me, distraught and frightened and more than a little drunk, and asked for sanctuary, upon the peril that he might be accused of slaying his own father.”

“And you granted it,” said the knight. The hermit nodded.

“I granted it, my lord, as I would have granted sanctuary to any other fugitive asking for it. Whether he was guilty or innocent, this would give him forty days of grace, during which proof for either his guilt or his innocence could be found. In those forty days, though, he would be safe here, beyond the reach of some over-zealous lawman who would hang him on the spot – or torture him until he would confess any sin he might or might _not_ have committed.”

“You question God’s testimony of guilt or innocence through the trial by ordeal?” asked Alvrich de Quadraria, who was not adverse to have his suspects walk over glowing coals or being dumped into a stream to find out the truth.

“I do not believe God would need such torturous methods to bring the truth forth,” answered the hermit simply.

Cadfael liked the answer, for neither did he.

“So you believe that your… brother here is innocent?” asked the knight with a frown. Brother Godric shrugged.

“I never asked; that is something between him and God and not mine to know. But I do know one thing: if he is anything like his father, he _might_ have killed in black anger, hitting someone or breaking their neck. He would _not_ have murdered a man in stealth, from behind… in cold blood.”

“And since you are the sons of the same father, that should be true for _you_ as well,” said Cadfael. The hermit nodded.

“That is true, Brother. I know this cannot prove my innocence – _or_ his – but it is true nonetheless. I know _I haven’t_ killed, and I doubt that he has. Whether you believe me or not, my lord,” he glanced at the knight, “you shall find both of us here for the next thirty or so days.”

“Shall I?” asked the knight doubtfully. Brother Godric nodded.

“Yes, my lord. My…” he clearly hesitated to use the word, not sure Hamo would accept it, “my brother cannot leave the place he sought out for his own safety until his forty days are over. As for me, I do not intend to leave it for the rest of my life.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“Can we trust his word?” asked Alvrich de Quadraria, mounting his grey charger while the lad Bened was holding the reins of the good beast. Cadfael nodded.

“I believe that we can, my lord. Garth, or rather Brother Godric, has clearly found his vocation, and he shall not give it up lightly. As for young Hamo, ‘tis in his best interest to stay put, at least while the days of his grace last. No-where else would he be quite as safe as he is on sacred ground, protected by the holy relics of the altar.”

“That still means not that either of them could not have murdered their father,” said the knight in dark contemplation.

“No,” Cadfael agreed; “and the same is true for the widow _and_ the groom. If only we could find the string that ended Master Haminch’s life, it could give us a hint at the murderer, too.”

“I have little hope for that,” sighed the knight. “Such an innocent-looking string… even if we saw it with our very eyes, hanging from someone’s belt, we would never recognize it.”

“It must have Master Haminch’s blood on it,” said Cadfael. Remember, it cut deeply into his flesh.”

“True, but the murderer would have washed it by now,” pointed out the knight. Cadfael shook his head.

“No; someone could have seen him doing it and asked questions. No, the safest thing for our murderer would be to put the string back to its place: holding a purse, or belting a shirt – for what could seem more harmless?”

“Unless he panicked and tried to get rid of it,” said the knight.

Cadfael shrugged. “Perhaps; although _that_ would be a foolish mistake. And someone who could end a man’s life acting so quickly and efficiently is _not_ a fool, as a rule. We shall see.”

“Hopefully, we will,” the knight steered his horse out of the stable. “I shall come back tomorrow, Brother, and listen to the news you might hear tonight. God be with you!”

With that, he urged the horse on, trotting out of the priory grounds, passing on his way by Sister Amadea, who was returning from her visits by the one or other cottager. He greeted the nun respectfully; she returned his greeting mutely, with folded hand and an inclined head, her downcast eyes never leaving the ground under her feet.


	12. Evidence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vox angelica is an organ stop, giving a gentle tremolo effect; it means “the voice of the angels”. This story takes place after the sixteenth novel, “The Heretic’s Apprentice”, but before the seventeenth, “The Potter’s Field”.

**CHAPTER ELEVEN - EVIDENCE**

Dame Astola de Hammerwich felt as if she were slowly awakening from a long dream; not quite a nightmare but not a pleasant one, either. She had needed a few days to understand that she was free now: a widow of some standing and with enough income to feed her for the rest of her life. Not princely – not now that her late husband had given half of the lands they had held to the nuns – but she had learned at a very young age how to live on very little.

She would manage; she always did. Only that now she would manage on her own, without a cantankerous, aging man looking over her shoulder. Without the harsh words chastising her imaginary mistakes… and without the beatings that had robbed her the chance to have children of her own.

The Reverend Mother had offered her lodging and _procuratio_ on priory grounds, as reparation for what she had lost due to the grant, but for now, she thankfully rejected the generous offer. Perchance one day she would accept it; even join the convent, after a few years. Right now, though, she wanted to enjoy her newly-won freedom; the unexpected peace she had long ceased to hope for.

The burden of running the household on her own did not frighten her. She had done so since the day of her wedding. The only difference would be that she would not need to carefully herd a stubborn, bad-tempered man towards the right decisions. It would be infinitely easier this way.  
  
A discreet knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. She went to answer it and was greeted by a nun; probably one of the new ones, as she could not recognize her.

“How can I help you, Sister…” she trailed off, not knowing the nun’s name.

“Sister Eata,” supplied the nun helpfully. Gold-flecked blue-grey eyes – Saxon eyes! – smiled at her from under the crisp white wimple. “I am in charge of the _scriptorium_ here. The Reverend Mother asked me to bring you this.”

She handed the widow a small book in a soft leather pouch. It was a so-called girdle book, barely lager than a man’s palm; small enough for a lady to carry it on her belt. Bound in gilded leather, it was of excellent penmanship, with tiny yet colourful illumination, clearly the legends of some saint.

“This is the _Vita_ of Saint Milburga, and as it is written in Saxon, the Reverend Mother thought you would like to have it,” explained the nun. “She understands that you delight in reading.”

Dame Astola nodded with a faint smile. “It has always been my greatest joy. Brother Petrus, the precentor of Burton Abbey, used to send me books with one of their lay servants,” she glanced at the nun thoughtfully. “Our manor lies just outside of Burton-upon-Trent, you know; my husband was one of the lord bishop’s chief tenants. We used to go to the Abbey Church for Mass and the offices all the time.”

“’Tis strange then that Master Haminch would make his grant to our house,” said Sister Eata in surprise. “Surely Burton could have used it, too, moreover as they have just finished rebuilding their church.”

“Haminch said that Burton was rich enough already,” replied Dame Astola, “while a fledgling house like yours needed all the support that could be provided. Although I do have the feeling that he held a grudge against the monks of Burton for supporting my reading habit,” she added with a weary smile. “He was not lettered, you see, and neither is his son, despite my efforts to teach him, and thus they were both deeply suspicious towards books.”

“Ignorant men usually are,” agreed the nun.

“Of course, I did not know that the Abbey servant that brought me the books was, in truth, his bastard,” added Dame Astola. “How could I? I do not hail from Burton, and no-one ever told me about him. All I knew was this pleasant, scholarly young man, a friend of letters and a servant of the monks. I never asked about his parentage. Haminch was… most displeased when he found out who he truly was. I… I never saw him again.”

“How long ago has that been?” asked Sister Eata, secretly wondering if the late Master Haminch would truly have had a reason to be displeased.

Had there been more between his young wife and his dispossessed son than the shared love for books? As someone who had spent the greater part of her life in the outside world, the nun knew that things were seldom as innocent as they seemed at first sight. On the other hand, even if they were, indeed, completely innocent, people might not believe it. Elderly, tyrannous husbands with much younger wives the least.

“Six years,” Dame Astola gave the nun another one of those weary smiles. “I know what you must think, Sister, but you are wrong. Nothing untoward has ever happened between Garth and me. Yes, I loved him, and he loved me; but that was a love between two kindred spirits – we never even touched. There was no need. We had our books and the strange new worlds they opened for us, and that was enough. We were happy and content.”

A dedicated scholar herself, Sister Eata could believe that easily, although she doubted many other people would. Least of all her husband.

“He gave you something your husband could not,” she said, and the widow nodded.

“He was the best thing that ever happened to me. I knew it could not last; I wonder sometimes what happened to him, though.

Sister Eata had her own thoughts about _that_ but found it better not to voice them just yet.

“What are you going to do now?” she asked instead.

“I shall go back to our manor and continue what I have done before,” the widow shrugged lightly. “I just hope Hamo would prove innocent. I shall need him to tend to our fields. I cannot do that on my own.”

“You still have that villein of yours to tend to the fields,” reminded her Sister Eata.

The widow’s face clouded over.

“I would prefer _not_ to live alone with Sweyn in the house,” she said tonelessly. “Not when there is no other man to protect me.

Sister Eata gave her a sharp look. “Has he tried to force himself upon you?”

Dame Astola shook her head. “Not while my husband was alive; he would not dare. No-one dared to cross Haminch, least of all his villeins. But he has had his eyes on me all the time, and I fear that he may become more… bold now that the only one he must face is a defenceless widow.”

“You must not return home; not yet, and certainly not alone,” said Sister Eata with emphasis. “Stay here, with us, until the riddle of your husband’s death is solved. Sister Ursula will see that you do not lack anything.”

“I shall, for a while,” agreed Dame Astola, “but I cannot stay forever. I have a household to run. Sooner or later, I shall have to return. And should Hamo prove guilty, I will be alone.”

“Hold on to your hope, just a little longer,” said the nun. “I shall speak with Brother Cadfael to see what he has learned. Perchance not everything is lost just yet.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Brother Cadfael came from Mass deep in thought. He had spent a considerable part of the night thinking about this strange murder case, with so many people who could have committed the crime, each of them for a perfectly good reason. So why did he still have the feeling that they were overlooking something?

Something that was glaringly obvious, they were just unable to see it – and why? Was it possible that _all_ these people – the two ill-used sons, the long-suffering widow _and_ the groom with the well-founded grudge – were innocent, after all? Could there be a fifth suspect, with a motivation of which he had not even thought yet?

Greed, revenge, pure hatred, or simply the end of what an abused wife could still endure – what else could there be?

He shook his head ruefully, nodded his greetings to the ever-vigilant Sister Amadea who was leaving the sacristy and about to begin her daily round among he poor and the suffering, and headed back to the guest hall. Perhaps if he revealed his doubts to Brother Mark, it would help. Mark was the brightest soul he had ever had under his hand; perhaps his inner light could illuminate the shadows of this dark riddle.

He stopped on his way to examine Brother Godric’s ill-fated rosebush that had been broken under the dead weight of the late Master Haminch. He saw with a certain amount of delight that someone had righted the bush during his absence; wrapped the broken bole tightly with thin rope, so that it might hold nonetheless, and even supported the trunk with a few sturdy sticks that took over some of the weight. A few buds on the upper branches were just beginning to open, showing the first hint of white petals.

Cadfael wondered who might have done such excellent work on the rosebush. Had Sister Benedicta, under whose blessed hands everything flourished like in the Garden Eden, taken it upon herself to heal the poor, innocent plant? Or had Brother Ifan asked for leave to do it, as some kind of penance? It was unlikely that Brother Godric would have suddenly developed the right hand for roses in any case.

Whoever it might have been, they have saved the bush and thus prevented a piece of beauty from getting lost. For which, Cadfael decided, they deserved thanks.

He leaned closer to take in the scent of the budding roses… and _then_ he saw it. Half-buried in the soil under the rosebush, a string of black wool lay, about a foot or so long, almost invisibly. Holding his breath, Cadfael went to his knees and carefully, patiently swept the soil away with his bare hands until he had laid the string free. Then he held it up against the rays of the early morning sun and examined it from every side.

There could be no doubt _what_ he was seeing. The string had patches of encrusted blood, on several places. This was clearly the weapon that had ended Master Haminch’s life.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“Are you certain about that?” asked Alvrich de Quadraria with a frown.

He had come up hot-footed from his nearby manor, following the summons of the lad Bened, sent by Cadfael, in the hope that they might finally unravel the mystery surrounding Master Haminch’s death.

Cadfael nodded. “Quite certain, my lord. See this,” he took a small spoonful of clear water and let a few drops fall onto one of the blood-encrusted spots. The water that ran through the wool gained a visibly reddish hue. “This is blood.”

“But if this is the string with which Master Haminch was murdered, how is it possible that we haven’t found it earlier?” asked the knight.

“That is a good question,” admitted Cadfael. “I have searched the rosebush _and_ the soil under and around it thoroughly after the body had been removed. I could swear that this string was _not_ there. I should have seen it, had it been there.”

“Not necessarily,” said the knight. “You said it yourself that it was partially buried.”

“And that, exactly, is what makes me wonder,” replied Cadfael. “Had it already been there in the night of the murder, it would have got deeper into the earth since then, due to wind and weather. Sister Alphonse tells me it rained here in the night I spent in Burton. Had the string been already there…”

“… the rain would have washed the blood away,” finished the knight for him. “I see your point. So it must have been placed there afterwards.”

“Yesterday or last night, presumably,” said Cadfael.

Alvrich de Quadraria shook his head in bewilderment. “But why?”

“Two reasons,” explained Cadfael. “Firstly, the murderer no longer dared to keep it. He could not afford it to be found on him. Secondly, this way he could direct all suspicions to Brother Godric.”

“Or Hamo,” said he knight, but Cadfael shook his head.

“Where would anybody but you and me know that Hamo is hiding in his brother’s cell?”

“True,” admitted the knight. “Are you saying, then, that the murderer is trying to put the blame on Brother Godric?”

“That is what I am saying, yes.”

“But to do so, he had to know that Brother Godric was the son of the late Master Haminch, had he not? Why else would he choose to blame him?”

“I fear it is not that simple,” said Cadfael thoughtfully. “If anyone else but Brother Ifan had heard the quarrel between Godric and his father that night – and remember, he told us they were quite loud – they would have seen Godric as the perfect victim. After all, has Master Haminch not accused him of having seduced his wife?”

“And Godric, in turn, accused _him_ of murdering his mother,” considered the knight, thinking. Cadfael nodded.

“An accusation that apparently hit Master Haminch hard. How did Ifan phrase it? He just _broke_ under the weight of his sin that he had carried with him for six years. That was what everyone knowing him well told us: that it has been six years since he became so worried about the salvation of his soul. And now he broke down, begged for forgiveness…”

“… and promised reparations,” added the knight. “I regret to say, Brother, but that puts Hamo de Hammerwich back into the picture. Hearing that his father would revert the grant for his _brother_ but not for _him_ … And hiding in Godric’s very cell gave him ample chances to place the evidence.”

“Ah, but has he also righted the rosebush?” asked Cadfael.

The knight gave him a bewildered look. “What does the rosebush have to do with this?”

“Everything,” said Cadfael. “I firmly believe that the rosebush is the key to this foul deed. Hamo, hiding under Godric’s roof, would not need any excuse for being in the garden. He could have placed the evidence any time he wanted. But someone from the _outside_ had to cover his true intentions – and what would look more innocent than righting a broken bush?”

Alvrich de Quadraria mulled over that aspect for a while. “Let’s say you are right,” he then said. “Who would be able to right the bush then?”

Cadfael sighed. “That is the problem, my lord. Nearly _everyone_ here could have done it. It was done with care and _some_ skill, but it did not require an experienced gardener.”

“That means we are back to the beginning,” said the knight unhappily. “We are no closer to solving this mystery than two days ago.”

“Oh, I would not say _that_ ,” replied Cadfael. “The murderer has placed the evidence; something that he used to have on him all the time. Which means we need to look for something that is _missing_ now.”

“You realize how hopeless it is to find someone with a missing purse string or string belt, do you?” said the knight drily.

Cadfael nodded. “I do. Which is why we ought to focus on the rosebush.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The lad Bened had finished mucking out the stables and was coming back to the kitchen to break his fast. As always, he was welcomed heartily. Old Sister Aleth smiled at him and handed him a chunk of bread, some cheese and a few stripes of dried bacon, with a tankard of small beer and patted his head in a grandmotherly manner.

“You must eat well, my lad,” she said in that high, hollow voice of those with severely impaired hearing, “to keep up your strength.”

Chewing contentedly, Bened nodded his thanks and watched the nuns going after their work with mild nostalgia. He was grateful to Lord Quadraria for offering him work at the High Meadows; he had been there a few times, on one errand or another, and knew it would be a good life for a mere serving boy. But it still saddened him a little that he would have to leave the priory grounds. He would miss his mother; and he would miss the kindness of the other nuns, all of who loved him like a son or a younger brother – save one.

Said exception was coming to the kitchen at this very minute to collect the leftovers from the previous days, which she would then distribute among the poor in the neighbourhood: lonely widows in half-ruined cottages, families with more children than they could feed, and beggars sitting at the church door. Sister Amadea took her duties as the almoner of the house very seriously. By sunshine or stormy rain, she always left the house after morning Mass to take care of the needs of her charges.

She packed oatmeal, bread, cheese, dried meats and some greens and fruits into a large wicker basket under the weight of which a strong man would have staggered, gave Bened a disapproving look down her long nose – she strongly, albeit mutely opposed his living on priory grounds – and left with her burden. Hiltrude Astley, sent to help in the kitchen so that she would learn all sorts of work that needed to be done in a cloister one by one, looked after their self-appointed saint with a wry expression on her plain face.

“The good sister clearly has managed to find fault – again,” she said loudly, so that Sister Aleth would hear it. The old nun grinned slyly.

“Must be hard for a saint like her to live among us, sinners,” she replied in her high voice. “Look, she was so shaken that she forgot her pouch with the alms. Bened, me lad, will you take it after her? It would upset her terribly if she came late to her merciful duties.”

She said that with such an earnest, innocent mien that even young Sister Alumna, still skittish like a doe after her treatment at Godric’s Ford, allowed herself the shadow of a smile. Bened nodded, grinning like a loon, drank his beer and stuffed the rest of his breakfast into his pocket. Then he picked up the pouch and hurried after Sister Amadea.

He was in such a hurry that he nearly ran into Brother Cadfael, who was walking back to the chapel, after having taken his leave from Alvrich de Quadraria.

“Whoa, lad, not so fast!” said the old monk. “You shall run over someone if you go on like this. What is the hurry for anyway?”

“Sister Amadea forgot her pouch, the one with the coin for her charges, in the kitchen,” explained the boy. “Old Sister Aleth asked me to take it after her, so that she could go on with her work of mercy.”

“Without having to return to the kitchen, I deem,” Cadfael gave the pouch an absent-minded glance. It was simply a small bag, made of rough, black wool, held together by a grey drawstring. Nothing to see there.

“That, too,” agreed Bened with a wicked grin, confirming Cadfael’s suspicion that the saintly Sister Amadea was not particularly well-liked among her fellow nuns – _or_ among the servants.

But that was neither new nor of any interest. He needed to focus on the rosebush.

“Tell you what, my lad,” he said. “Come to me when you have delivered the pouch. I will be helping out Sister Alphonse in her workshop, but I would also like to ask you a few questions about life in this house.”

Bened agreed readily and ran off with the pouch. With a thoughtful shake of his grizzled head, Cadfael continued his way t the chapel. He had a few private prayers to speak before going to Sister Alphonse’s workshop.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
True to his word, Bened came to the small cottage amidst the herb garden, where Sister Alphonse prepared her medicines, within the hour, red-faced and sweaty, but in a fairly good mood.

“Phew, she is _fast_!” he complained, wiping his glistening face with his shirt-sleeve; but he was laughing as he spoke. “I marvel how she can walk so swiftly in that heavy cowl of hers – and carrying a full basket, too! I only caught up with her at the edge of the woods.”

“I assume she was grateful for your efforts,” said Brother Mark, who had come to help Cadfael, as Sister Alphonse was busy in the infirmary. Just like in old times.

Bened shrugged and grinned again, this time a bit more grimly.

“If she was, she hid it well. She snatched the pouch from me, searched it to see if I had stolen anything – as if I would, ever! – and then turned her back to me and marched away.”

“That,” said Brother Mark, trying hard _not_ to sound judgemental – and failing, “was not nice of her. You went out of your way to do her a favour, and that is the thank you get?”

Bened shrugged again. “She is always like this. We are all but vermin in her eyes; unworthy to walk on the same ground she does.” He shook himself like a dog that had been out in the rain and got soaked; then he looked at Cadfael askance. “You wanted to ask me some questions, brother?”

“That I did,” replied Cadfael, taking the tincture boiling in a small iron pan off the fire and setting it on a marble slate to cool. “Can you perchance tell me which sisters do work regularly in the gardens?”

“Well, Sister Benedicta, of course,” said Bened promptly, “and one of the new sisters, a young one; I think Osyth is her name?”

Cadfael shook his head. “No, I did no mean the regular gardeners. I’m looking for someone who’s not a gardener herself but works in the gardens from time to time and thus can use the basic tools.”

“Almost all of them do that; more so at the time of the harvest,” answered Bened thoughtfully. “Sister Donata often helps out, as she has the strength of an ox; so does my mother when it isn’t a washing day. Old Sister Alphonse, too, if her herbs allow her the time; and, of course, Sister Amadea.”

“Sister Amadea?” repeated Brother Mark in surprise. “Why would she help out in the gardens? She has _two_ important offices already, both quite time-consuming. Why would she take on even more duties?”

Cadfael shrugged. “I cannot answer that; but I believe there’s someone in this house who can.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“No, she would not _need_ to help out in the gardens, seeing how valuable her work is, both as almoner and as sacristan,” said old Sister Alphonse in agreement, rubbing the small, cloudy glass flasks meant for lavender oil clean with a white rag. “But if there’s a hair shirt anywhere within reach, our resident saint will claim it and wear it. God only knows for what imagined sins, for I never heard of her to break even the smallest rule; perchance she does penance for the rest of us sinners.”

“And the Reverend Mother allows her to do so?” asked Brother Mark with a surprised frown.

Sister Alphonse shrugged. “I suppose it’s easier for Mother Patrice to let her have her way. Arguing with someone who has taken a wow of silence would be pointless, anyway. Besides, Sister Amadea has a stout supporter in Sister Augustine. Our sub-prioress seems to believe that the overflow from Amadea’s penitence and piety would wash off a few of our own shortcomings.”

Brother Mark shook his head thoughtfully.

“It does not work that way,” he said with the simple faith of one preparing himself for priesthood. “Our Lord gives His mercy freely; we don’t have the means to _deserve_ it, or we would not _need_ it. Although we must keep trying all our life. In the end, though, His is the grace as His is judgement, too.”

“Thankfully,” agreed the old nun, “or we would have but little hope for salvation. Sister Augustine sees it differently, though. She is used to think in terms of business: in gains and losses and reparations; as she used to do before taking the veil.”

Cadfael nodded; that certainly made sense. The sub-prioress kept running the very successful clothiers’ business that had been her dowry within the cloister walls. She would keep the mindset that came with it as well.

Unfortunately, a mindset that had made her business flourish would not necessarily be beneficial for the souls under her hand as well. Sister Magdalen’s example in Godric’s Ford had clearly shown _that_. But the late prioress of Godric’s Ford had been old and weary; Cadfael had little doubt that Mother Patrice would be able to deal both with her sub-prioress and _any_ errant sister if she saw the need. She must have thought that the lesser harm would come from not interfering – so far.

“So Sister Amadea can do as she pleases, knowing that Sister Augustine would support her,” he concluded.

The old nun nodded. “She’s been given considerable freedom in her coming and going, so that she could do her pious work better. How she manages to be present at the Office every time is a marvel. She must go on very little sleep, I presume. Why, just this very morning, I saw her come back from somewhere before _Lauds_ even, while it was still dark outside.”

“Before _Lauds_?” repeated Cadfael in surprise. “Where could she have possibly gone that early?”

“There’s a widow, living alone save from her maidservant in the shepherd’s cottage,” explained Sister Alphonse. “She’s ancient and at death’s own door; has been for months by now. I look after her once a day, but Sister Amadea regularly visits her, too, and sits with her when she is having a bad night. The little maidservant is allowed to ask for her at Sister Porter day or night.”

“The shepherd’s cottage?” Cadfael frowned, trying to remember some fleeting remark he had overheard while talking to people before the church in the morning of Master Haminch’s death. “Does that not stand right at the edge of the forest, just beyond the hermits’ gardens?”

“Why, it does indeed,” replied Sister Alphonse, a bit surprised. “In what way would that be of interest for you, Brother?”

“I’m not so certain about that myself,” admitted Cadfael. “But it gave me an idea. I’m afraid I’ll have to take my leave from you now, Sister; and I’ll need to take Brother Mark with me, too.”

“Go,” the old nun waved generously. “You’ve been of immense help already. What still has to be done today, I can manage alone.”

And with that, she turned her attention to the portly glass bottle full of lavender oil that stood on the middle of her working table. It had a small tap near its bottom, meant to fill the little flasks through it. Sister Alphonse, already forgotten about their presence, began with the concentrated work of filling the flasks.

Lavender oil, prized for its healing properties, was part of the house’s income, after all.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“Where are we going?” asked Brother Mark, following Cadfael out of the workshop obediently. Then, knowing the way the mind of his former mentor worked, he added with a smile. “We’re going to the shepherd’s cottage, are we not? But why? Do you think the old widow can tell us anything?”

“Not she, if she is truly in such a bad shape,” answered Cadfael. “But her maidservant ought to remember if Sister Amadea visited her last night. Moreover, I want to see how long it takes from the church to the cottage and back again. If it can be done between _Matins_ and _Lauds_ … and for what else one would have the time between these two Offices.”

“Like righting a broken rosebush and placing evidence that would point straight at Brother Godric?” asked Brother Mark doubtfully. “But why would a nun set so firmly on sainthood as Sister Amadea do something like that? Are you suspecting _her_ of having murdered Master Haminch now?”

“At least I cannot write off that possibility,” Cadfael sighed heavily.

Brother Mark shook his head. “I can’t believe it. The widow, the groom, the two sons – they all have good, solid motivations. But the sister? What could _possibly_ be hers?”

“I don’t know; not yet,” admitted Cadfael. “What little we know about her is not enough to find a reason. Let’s see first if she had the chance to work on the bush at all; we can think about _why_ she might have done it later.”


	13. Further Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vox angelica is an organ stop, giving a gentle tremolo effect; it means “the voice of the angels”. This story takes place after the sixteenth novel, “The Heretic’s Apprentice”, but before the seventeenth, “The Potter’s Field”.

**CHAPTER TWELVE – FURTHER REVELATIONS**

The way leading from the hermits' gardens to the shepherd’s cottage was but a narrow, beaten footpath, serving the three little huts tucked away cosily under the trees. In the first one and elderly couple lived retired. The man had once been the lay steward of the priory grounds, back when they still belonged to the canons of Lichfield, and still held a grudge against the nuns whom he considered intruders.

He had a great deal to say about Sister Amadea – little of which was flattering or, indeed, even close to the truth – his tongue waggling in exclamation, but he could not tell them whether she had been there in the previous night. His wife had nothing to say, nothing at all, just looked at them from under her crumpled wimple with accusing eyes… for what reason, they could not fathom.

At the second hut, the door was opened to them by a frightened little maidservant of about fourteen or fifteen, her thin face all wide, dark eyes, framed by a great tangle of dark hair. She was thin like a wraith, her hands raw and reddened from hard work; she reminded Cadfael of Rannilt, the Aurifaber’s little serving girl. She looked at them in concern, but her fear of the strange monks eased visibly when they asked about Sister Amadea.

“She comes to see after Mistress each day,” she said, “and so does Sister Alphonse. They wash her and dress the wounds on her back that she got from lying in bed for years. I don’t know how to use their herbs and salves. Sister Amadea often comes by a second time, too, to see how Mistress is doing, and to pray over her. They say such things ease a soul’s journey to heavens,” she explained.  
  
“Was she here last night, too?” asked Cadfael.

The girl nodded shyly. “Rather in the morning, right before daybreak; between two Offices, I should think. She came after _Matins_ in a hurry, for she’s forgotten to leave the alms here on the day before. She could have waited until her next visit,” the girl added tolerantly, “but that’s not her way. She takes her service to the poor and the helpless very seriously. She would never have forgotten the alms, had the cord of her pouch not broken when the corner of the table caught it.”

“Broken?” repeated Cadfael, his mind a-whirling with possibilities. “What kind of cord was it, child? Can you remember?”

The girl shrugged. “Why, just a simple black one, made of rough wool like the pouch itself. But she was upset about it all the same. She did not say so – she never speaks, you know – but I could see all the same. So I gave her the cord from Mistress’ old purse. It was torn and useless anyway, and she won’t be needing it, would she?”

Not according what Sister Alphonse had said about the old dame’s state of health, Cadfael thought.

“A grey cord, you say?” the image of a small, black woollen bag, full of coin, drawn together by a grey cord appeared in sharp detail before his inner eye; the forgotten pouch the lad Bened had been sent to take after Sister Amadea. “What happened to the string that had been torn, though?”

The girl frowned, trying to remember what must have seemed an insignificant detail to her.

“I believe she took it with her,” she finally said. “I cannot say for certain, Brother, but she’s not one who’d litter someone else’s home.”

“No; I’m certain that she’s not,” replied Cadfael gently. “Thank you, child; you’ve been quite helpful.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“Did you hear what you had expected to hear?” asked Brother Mark as they were walking back to the guest hall.

Cadfael nodded grimly. “It all fits together, Mark, can’t you see it? The loud quarrel in Brother Godric’s garden, the dead man found there under the rosebush, their shared past, the righting of the rosebush by unknown hands, the evidence placed there rather empathically… down to the broken string of the sister’s pouch.”

“Except one thing,” said Mark thoughtfully. “The murder itself. What possible reason could Sister Amadea have had to murder Master Haminch?”

“I cannot think of one,” admitted Cadfael, “not _yet_ , in any case. Unless the manor where she’d served as a tirewoman before taking the veil was, indeed, the one Master Haminch held for Bishop de Clinton. I cannot imagine how else their paths could have crossed, or what possible grudge she could have held against him.”

“But how can we find out if it _was_ the same manor?” asked Brother Mark. “She won’t tell us; she cannot. Perhaps Sister Alphonse…”

Cadfael shook his head. “Sister Alphonse does not know more about her past than what she’s already told me. But there _is_ someone who might be able to help.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“No,” said Dame Astola de Hammerwich without hesitation. “We have not had a tirewoman in the manor in all the years I was Haminch’s wife. Servants, certainly, both males and females, but never a confidante in such position… or permanently. Haminch expected me to run the household on my own. Not that I’d mind terribly,” she added with disarming honesty. “I did not want any more bastards while I could not carry any of _my_ children to term. It would have been too… hurtful.”

“Does this mean that Master Haminch never met Sister Amadea before?” asked Cadfael.

The widow shrugged elegantly. “Not to my knowledge, Brother. Of course,” she said with a hint of bitterness, “he rarely found it needful to tell me anything about his former acquaintances. Or about his future intentions, for that matter. I was to accept his decisions, whatever those might have been.”

Cadfael nodded in understanding. The late Master Haminch clearly had not been a man who would care about any possible objections from his wife… or from his son. His breaking down in Brother Godric’s garden had not come from true regret; more from fear for the fate of his soul.

“What about you?” he asked the widow. “Have _you_ met Sister Amadea before? Outside of your husband’s manor, I mean.”

“No,” she replied slowly. “In truth, I’ve barely seen her, even at the times we were visiting Farewell. She was always out on some kind of errand. The only ones I ever spoke with were Sister Ursula, the hospitaller, the Reverend Mother herself and, lately, Sister Eata, who brought me some books,” she gave Cadfael a curious glance. “But why are you asking me all these questions, Brother? You cannot truly believe that a nun as pious and selfless as Sister Amadea would have anything to do with the death of my husband!”

“I don’t know,” admitted Cadfael. “’Tis hard to believe, and yet we’ve seen horrible things done with the best intentions – and in God’s name, too! I cannot rule out the possibility; less so in the light of the new evidence we’ve recently found. Yet I cannot see the reason for her to commit such mortal sin.”

“You cannot, for there is none,” said Dame Astola firmly. “All she ever does is for the good of this house and for those poor souls in her charge. She’s devoted her life to their service, and she does it exemplarily.”

“No doubt she does,” Cadfael agreed, but something he could not quite put his finger on was still nagging him in the inside. “Well, I must go and speak with some other people. I’d ask you, madam, not to mention this to anyone just yet.”

“Of course not,” she replied, a little frostily. “I’d never besmirch the name of such a saintly nun with false accusations.”

Cadfael thanked her and left, not quite certain what to think about the conversation. Could Sister Amadea and the widow have planned the demise of the late Master Haminch together? Was _that_ why the widow had defended the nun so vehemently? But why would they do that? Their interests were clashing in the matter: the grant to Farewell served the nun’s interests, while having it revoked would have meant a small fortune for the widow – unless it would have gone to the bastard son.

But Brother Godric had long turned his back on worldly treasures. Which meant that in the end, the revoking of the grant would have led nowhere.

Cadfael shook his head, realizing that he had started thinking in circles. Whether he could see any motivation on Sister Amadea’s side or not, it was his duty to inform Mother Patrice about the possibility that one of her nuns – and one considered a saint at that – was a murderer.

He was not looking forward to do _that_.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was but an hour before _None_ when Mother Patrice finally had enough of her daily duties done to have time to speak with him. To Cadfael’s surprise, she had summoned Sister Eata to this meeting as well.

“As Sister Eata accompanied you to Burton Abbey, I thought she may have… observations to supply,” explained the prioress. I’ve also sent word to Alvrich de Quadraria; as the undersheriff of this shire, he’d need to learn everything you have found out, Brother.”

Indeed, the knight arrived but a few minutes later, eager to hear about any possible new turn in their mysterious murder case.

“Let us summarize what we know for certain first,” he said. “We know that the hermit we came to know as Brother Godric is, in truth, Garth, the bastard son of Master Haminch.”

“He is?” asked Mother Patrice in surprise. That was a detail she had not been told yet. Cadfael nodded.

“He is. He freely admitted that much to me and to Lord Quadraria last night. He also admitted having a bad fight with his estranged father, during which some unforgivable words were said, on both sides.”

“What words?” asked the prioress, trusting them not to repeat any profanities.

“Basically, Master Haminch accused Brother Godric of having had an adulterous affair with his second wife, back in Burton-upon-Trent,” Alvrich de Quadraria summarized things for her. “Brother Godric, in exchange, accused him of having murdered his mother, six years back.”

“Those are serious accusations,” said Mother Patrice with an unhappy frown. “Can there be any truth in either of them? Wait; of course there is – Brother Godric’s mother was the woman Gerta who died in Burton, right?”

“There seems to be no doubt about that, no,” said Cadfael. “I’m a bit doubtful about Master Haminch’s accusation, though.”

“If I may, Reverend Mother,” Sister Eata waited for her superior’s nod before continuing, “I believe there is some truth in that, too. Dame Astola confessed to me that she used to have a… deep friendship with Garth while he was still an Abbey servant in Burton. Apparently, they shared a love for books. She says that was all they had.”

“Do you believe her?” the eyes of the prioress were guarded. “Having such a scandalous affair continue under our very roof would cast a bad light on our house.”

Sister Eata nodded. “I’m inclined to believe her, yes. It seems to me that Garth gave her all the things her husband couldn’t; or wouldn’t. The sins of the flesh would hardly count among _those_. Moreover, I doubt that she knows Garth has lived within arm’s reach, hidden under a different name and lost in his pious studies, in all those years. Neither did, apparently, Master Haminch; or else he’d have confronted Brother Godric much earlier.”

“He would,” Cadfael agreed. “He knew well enough who _Garth_ was; that it was his cast-out son who brought the books from the Abbey for his wife. He even went to confront Gerta about it; which led to the untimely death of the poor woman. He just never realized who _Brother Godric_ was. Not till the evening of his own death.”

“Can Brother Godric have sought revenge for the death of his mother, after all?” asked Mother Patrice. “The words Brother Ifan repeated to you were those of anger; perchance even of hatred.”

“True, Cadfael admitted. “And had I not found the evidence placed in his own garden, I still wouldn’t dismiss him as the possible murderer.”

“One would think that the evidence points directly at him,” said the prioress.

Cadfael nodded thoughtfully. “It does indeed. Rather clumsily, I should say; which is why I no longer believe that he would be our murderer.”

“Oh?” said Alvrich de Quadraria in surprise. “Do enlighten me, Brother; why would such clear evidence speak _against_ his possible guilt?”

“Had Brother Godric murdered his father in a fit of rage, he’d not keep the evidence hidden for days, only to place it then somewhere where anyone could find it,” explained Cadfael. “Had he killed Master Haminch in cold blood, he’d have found a much better way to get rid of it.”

“Not if he wanted to put the blame on his half-brother,” pointed out the knight. “Hamo would have been the ideal scapegoat, hiding in his cell and having had a big fight with their father on the previous day.”

“Perhaps,” Cadfael allowed. “Yet I don’t think so. I find that Brother Godric has found his vocation; his true place in this world. He seems content enough with his life. Had he murdered his father in black anger, he would not have put the blame on Hamo.”

“What about the other way round?” asked the knight. I know we’ve discussed this before, but Hamo _could_ have murdered his father and blame it on his half-brother. Brother Godric, too, would make an excellent scapegoat, with his long-held grudges towards Master Haminch. And Hamo could have easily placed the evidence, too.”

“But he couldn’t have righted the rosebush,” Cadfael reminded him. “Not without having been seen.”

Alvrich de Quadraria shook his head in mild annoyance. “You’re obsessed with that rosebush, Brother. Why should it matter who’s righted it? No-one seems to remember having seen _anybody_ work on it, and my sergeants have questioned the people thoroughly.”

“That is it exactly, my lord,” said Cadfael. “ _Nobody_ remembers – why not? It must have taken time.”

The knight shrugged. “Perhaps the murderer did it under the veil of darkness.”

“Not without a torch, they couldn’t have done it; and a torch _would_ have been spotted,” replied Cadfael. “No, it must have happened during daytime; although perhaps late in the evening or early in the morning. And yet people don’t remember… curious.”

“Not necessarily,” said Sister Eata suddenly. “People were questioned if they’d seen anything out of the ordinary – what if they’d seen something that _was_ ordinary? Something they see every day and thus don’t even perceive consciously?”

“Like a hermit… or a nun, working in the gardens,” Cadfael finished for her grimly. “So, if we rule out Brother Godric, and I’m quite certain that we _can_ rule him out, who remains? The other two hermits, or one of the sisters. One who carries a large pouch with her all the time. A pouch of black wool, the cord of it has recently been broken in the shepherd’s cottage and replaced by a grey purse string that the old dame, lying in death’s door, would no longer need.”

The rosy face of Mother Patrice became ash grey with shock.

“Only two sisters visit old Marge regularly,” she whispered. “Sister Alphonse and Sister Amadea. But why would either of them want to commit such a mortal sin? They never had any dealings with Master Haminch, as far as I know.”

“I do not believe it had any personal reason,” said Cadfael quietly. “I think the murderer thought she was serving the greater good with her deed.”

“What greater good could be served by murdering an old man?” asked the prioress bitterly.

Sister Eata looked at her in compassion. The thought of one of her nuns being a murderer must have been terrible for her.

“I think I’m beginning to see it, Reverend Mother,” said the scholarly nun. “Brother Cadfael tells us that Master Haminch offered Brother Godric to revoke the grant to our house and give _him_ those lands, as reparation for his mother’s death. Those lands yield a considerable amount of money each year. Money that could be distributed among the poor and the suffering. Money that could do much good.”

“And so Sister Amadea murdered Master Haminch before he could have taken that wealth back?” Mother Patrice laughed, with just a touch of hysteria in her voice. “She murdered one of our benefactors in the name of _mercy_?”

Cadfael noticed the meaningful fact that the prioress did not even consider the possibility of old Sister _Alphonse_ being the murderer. She clearly recognized integrity when she saw it.

“I’m afraid she did,” he said simply.

Alvrich de Quadraria shook his head in disbelief. “I cannot believe this! Have you got any hard proof, Brother?”

“We know that she heard the quarrel between Brother Godric and his father,” Cadfael began to list the facts methodically. “Brother Ifan saw her pass by the cells about the same time. We know that she’s the one to bring the hermits their food. She goes in and out of their cells; no-one would take conscious notice of her being in Brother Godric’s garden. We know that the cord of her pouch was broken in the shepherd’s cottage; the little maidservant gave her the new, grey string. The same one _I saw_ when the lad Bened was sent after her with the pouch she’d forgotten in the kitchens. And we know she takes her duties as the guardian angel of the poor _very_ seriously.”

“Perhaps,” allowed the knight. “But none of this counts as hard evidence. We need more.”

“I’ve got the broken cord,” said Cadfael. “All I need is to compare it with the pouch. If they are made of the same wool, you’ll have your proof, my lord.”

“And how do you intend to prove _that_?” asked the knight. “Wool is wool; one piece is like the other.”

“For the untrained eyes, perhaps; which, unfortunately, includes mine,” said Mother Patrice. “But Sister Augustine, or rather her best weaver, Sister Clara, will be able to tell them apart,” she looked at Sister Eata. “Sister, see that you find both Sister Amadea and Sister Clara, Ask them to come to my parlour. _Then_ go to Sister Amadea’s cell and fetch that pouch. Don’t tell her aught in advance; we don’t want her to get rid of the evidence before we could examine it.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Both nuns seemed honestly surprised that they had been summoned before the presence of their superior. Such summons was apparently rare in Farewell, where Mother Patrice preferred less direct methods to shepherd her flock into the right direction.

Sister Clara, a thin, small-boned, short-sighted woman of perhaps forty years, was also clearly unhappy that her work had been interrupted, for whatever reason. As Cadfael would learn later, she and her helpers were working on a new set of altar clothes for the cathedral of Lichfield, and on a tight schedule at that. She appeared eager to be done with whatever was expected her here and then return to her loom.

Sister Amadea, a head taller and some years younger, albeit also of ascetic looks, had her long, pale visage better under control. Tucking her hands into the wide sleeves of her rusty black habit, she stood there patiently, with downcast eyes – the epitome of an obedient nun – waiting for orders from the prioress.

Sister Eata followed them shortly afterwards, dropping a small bag of rough black wool onto the Reverend Mother’s table unceremoniously.

“Is this the one, Brother?” she asked.

Cadfael examined the pouch. Yes, it was the same one he had seen in young Bened’s hands. The size, the signs of long wear, the roughness of the fabric... even the mismatched grey sting holding it together. He wondered how he had missed to notice _that_ the last time.

“It appears so, yes,” he said. “At the very least, this is the one Bened had to take after the sister this morning.”

“I see,” Mother Patrice turned to Sister Clara. “Sister, I want you to examine the pouch and a cord Brother Cadfael will show you very closely. I want to know if they’ve been made of the same material; and if they once belonged together or not.”

Sister Clara did as she had been told, her thin face taut with concentration. After having taken a close look at both items and having rubbed them between her fingertips carefully, she nodded without hesitation.

“Yes, Reverend Mother. Both pouch and cord come from our own workshop.”

“How can you tell _that_ by simply looking at them?” marvelled Alvrich de Quadraria.

“We always weave a small F into such items that are meant for the use of our own sisters, to help us find them, should they get lost,” explained the nun. She then turned the emptied pouch to the sunlight streaming in through the window. “You won’t find it, unless you know what to look for, my lord, but if you hold it against direct sunlight, it will become visible.”

Mother Patrice, Cadfael and Alvrich de Quadraria all made the attempt and found that it was so. The small F, symbolising the ownership of the house, was clearly visible in the middle of the pouch.

“What about he cord, though?” asked the knight.

“It’s our, too,” replied Sister Clara. “We always weave a thin fibre of hemp into the wool, to make the cord stronger. You can see it here well enough; the texture is different. If you’d rub it between your fingertips, my lord, you could feel it for yourself.”

Alvrich de Quadraria did as he had been asked, and Cadfael followed his example. They could both feel the different fibre within the woollen string.

“We only make these cords for our own use,” Sister Clara added. “The fabric we do sell to people in the village, but not with the mark of our house; and never the cords. They’ve got their own rope-makers for that.”

“Thank you, Sister Clara,” said Mother Patrice. “You may return to your work now.”

The nun nodded and left gratefully. The prioress waited until she would get out of earshot; then she turned to Sister Amadea with a weary sigh.

“Do you have anything to say, Sister?”

Sister Amadea shook her head with downcast eyes.

“You’ll look at me when I speak to you,” said Mother Patrice icily. “And dare you not to hide behind your vow of silence! I declare that vow null and void, in face of the enormity of your sin. You will obey me; you will speak here and now, and you will tell my _why_. Why did you murder a benefactor of our house?”

If they expected an angry outburst from the self-proclaimed saint of the house, or a teary breakdown under the weigh of a guilty conscience, they were disappointed. Sister Amadea did raise her dull brown eyes indeed, but in those eyes, there was no hint of regret. The look she gave them was rather full of contempt.

“I could not allow the grant made to our house, for the good of the poor and the needful, to be revoked and all that wealth go to an ill-begotten bastard,” she said in a flat voice, not the least repentant.

“You murdered a man in cold blood, just to have more alms to distribute among your charges?” asked Alvrich de Quadraria in shock.

Of all the reasons for which different people might have murdered Master Haminch for, this was one he had _not_ expected.

“And what good that man has ever done to anyone?” replied Sister Amadea resentfully. “He was a drunkard and a womanizer and a murderer, who tried to buy absolution for his condemned soul by giving his wealth to the poor. And even that did he attempt to revoke, just to gain forgiveness from the foul fruit of his sins!”

More she was not willing to say, no matter what they tried. She wrapped herself in icy silence and followed Alvrich de Quadraria’s sergeants, when they arrived to arrest her, without resistance.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“What will happen to her now?” asked Mother Patrice tiredly.

The knight shrugged. “That depends on the lord sheriff now. But she has murdered a man in cold blood and tried to put the blame on an innocent… I’d have no high hopes if I were her.”

“She would not care,” said Sister Eata drily. “She still believes herself in the right. That makes self-proclaimed saints so dangerous – they believe they are above the law… even above the laws God has given us to guide our uncertain steps in this mortal life.”

Mother Patrice shook her head, devastated. “How could we – how could _I have_ overlooked that she was not in her right mind?”

“She played her part well,” replied Sister Eata with a shrug. “She fooled us all. Be comforted now, Reverend Mother. She is no longer your responsibility.”

“That is cold comfort for having nurtured an unrepentant murderer in our midst,” complained the prioress bitterly.

All her usual strength seemed to have abandoned her, and with good reason. Cadfael knew it would take a long while for the community to recover from this wound dealt to them by one of their own.

“Finding a snake in Paradise is always a hard blow,” he said quietly. “But consider this, Reverend Mother: in the end, we shall be rendering account of our own soul, and ours alone. We cannot be made responsible for chances made by others.”

“If that is so,” answered Mother Patrice, “then why do I feel so guilty?”

“Because you are just a mere mortal, like the rest of us,” replied Cadfael gently. “It takes a saint or an angel to rise above the sorrow we feel over a lost soul – but given time, you shall heal, and so will your convent. Do not lose hope now, that the evil has been weeded out of your garden.”

“How can I not?” Mother Patrice’s voice was barely audible. “They are my flock, and I failed to protect them.”

“There will always be wolves in sheepskin that will try to hide among the lambs,” said Cadfael. “You cannot always spot them in time. But once they are gone, your flock will need your guidance more than before.”

There was a long silence; then the prioress nodded. “You are right, Brother. I cannot wallow in self-pity right now, even though it would perhaps make me feel better,” she added with a faint glint of her usual dry humour in her eyes. “I thank you for everything you’ve done to cast the light of truth over these sad events. Thank to your diligent search, the truth has been found, and we can begin healing.”

“Then my work here is done,” said Cadfael, “and I shall be on my way, soon. I have tarried here far too long already; Shrewsbury is calling out to me.”

“I understand,” replied Mother Patrice, “though we shall be loath to se you leave. Most of all Sister Alphonse, I deem. She so enjoyed to have a kindred spirit here.”

“We all have our duties,” said Cadfael, smiling, “and to be honest, I look forward to be home again.”


	14. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vox angelica is an organ stop, giving a gentle tremolo effect; it means “the voice of the angels”. This story takes place after the sixteenth novel, “The Heretic’s Apprentice”, but before the seventeenth, “The Potter’s Field”.

**EPILOGUE**

Two days later the truth about Master Haminch’s death had run its circle all across Farewell and tempers were slowly cooling down. The visitors – including Brother Cadfael and Brother Mark – were about to leave for home. Cadfael paid the jovial hermit, Brother Rhodri, a last visit; the two discussed the unfortunate events in detail and then parted in friendship.

Most of the nuns found the time to wish them a safe journey home and to offer their prayers so that it would be so indeed. Old Sister Alphonse gave Cadfael a handful of her oldest, most valued recipes as a parting gift – ones she had learned from her father and grandmother, and also some cuts and seeds for his herb garden. Young Sister Alumna entrusted to him a message for her beloved uncle, Brother Edmund. Sister Anna, mistress of the kitchens, prepared for them a satchel with food, so that they would suffer no need along the way.

Mother Patrice came in person to see them off, with Sister Eata at her elbow. Cadfael wondered briefly whether this meant that the prioress had found a kindred spirit in the strong-willed nun, or simply wanted to keep an eye on her. Perhaps both, to a certain extent.  
  
Alvrich de Quadraria rode with them for the first leg of their journey and offered them the loan of the horses till they would reach Shrewsbury. He could always fetch the good beasts when he paid Hugh Beringar a visit, which he was planning anyway, he explained.

But Cadfael thankfully rejected the generous offer.

“We thank you for having eased a good part of the way for us, my lord,” he said, “but it would not be proper for two humble monks to travel as we were of _your_ standing. We are not with the entourage of some great lord or bishop; nor are we in any hurry. We shall continue our journey on foot, as it is fitting for those who consider themselves but pilgrims on this mortal soil.”

“That will be a long an arduous walk, though,” said the knight.

Cadfael shook his head.

“Not for us; we are used to travel this way. It was but a few years back that I’ve gone the way from Shrewsbury to Farewell, with several side looks, in the company of Brother Haluin; and he dragging himself on crutches, too, in the cold of November. Compared with _that_ , this journey will be an easy one.”

Seeing that he could not change their minds, Alvrich de Quadraria thanked Cadfael for his help with unravelling the murder mystery; then he took his leave from them and turned around to ride home, taking the horses with him. For a knight, with always a few grooms in his entourage, taking care for a few spare beasts did not mean any added burden.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“Lord de Quadraria is very generous and hospitable,” commented Brother Mark, when the knight and his men were gone. “But I’m relieved that we’re finally among us, Cadfael; and that we’re heading home.”

“So am I,” admitted Cadfael. “It’s been an unexpectedly long absence, and I find I miss Shrewsbury. I need to be in my workshop again, in my herb garden… and I want my bed. It seems that the older I get, the better I sleep in my own bed. Even if it isn’t half as comfortable as the ones in Farewell’s guest hall.”

Brother Mark, being of an age in which a young man could sleep on just about any surface and at any time he was allowed to, smiled.

“I do notice, though, that you only ever complain when such a mission is nearing its end,” he said fondly. “Never _before_.”

“Of course not!” agreed Cadfael readily. “That would be foolish; and while I might be old, I’m certainly not a fool.”

“True; you are not,” laughed Brother Mark quietly; then he became thoughtful again. “I wonder what will happen to Dame Astola de Hammerwich now. She was not too eager to return home, was she?”

“Not as long as he feared that her stepson may be found guilty and hanged,” said Cadfael. “I had the feeling that she feared to return with only Sweyn as her company. But now that Hamo was proved innocent and can go home with her and protect her from any unwelcome attention, I doubt that she would tarry in Farewell much longer.”

“Do you believe that Hamo would be good to her?” asked Brother Mark, a little concerned on the widow’s behalf.

Cadfael nodded. “Of that I’m fairly certain. I think she’s always got along well with her stepson; she more or less raised the lad, after all. And Hamo would never be able to run the household on his own – a manor like that needs a mistress with a firm hand, and Dame Astola _has_ been that mistress for many years. “Besides,” he added, “as the widow of Haminch, she does have her privileges. If Hamo wants to eke out a living for himself, now that half their lands have gone to the nuns, he will need her support.”

“So you believe they will arrange themselves?” asked Brother Mark.

Cadfael nodded again. “They might bump shoulders a few times, but they’ll find an arrangement that will benefit them both. Dame Astola is a woman of much patience, and she has a remarkable amount of common sense. They will manage. All it will take is a little time.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Back in Farewell, Dame Astola de Hammerwich was entertaining similar thoughts. After having led several lengthy discussions with both her stepson and Mother Patrice, concerning the practical management of their shared property, she found that she had made as good a bargain as it was possible under the circumstances.

The fact that Mother Patrice had been feeling guilty and was thus more inclined to make allowances _did_ help her case. She was fairly content with the results and ready to go home.

There was only _one_ thing she needed to do before she would leave.

She chose the early evening hours just shortly before Vespers, when it was still enough light for everyone to see her entering Brother Godric’s garden in plain sight, yet with few people actually around to do so. She was not hiding anything – there was nothing to hide, had never been – but she did not want strangers gawking at the fence, either.

This was a deeply personal matter, after all.

She found the front door of the cell wide open. The hermit was sitting at his desk, using the last rays of the sun to finish copying something. He was so focused on his work that he did not even notice her presence at first; thus she had the chance to look her fill, after all those years.

He had changed a lot during the six years she had not seen him, but she found that the changes served to his advantage. True, he was much thinner than she remembered, and the unruly beard concealed much of the oh-so-familiar features. Had she met him without knowing what he had become, she might not have even recognized him.

He had come to his prime: a well-made young man about thirty, beyond his gangly youth and of wiry strength. But most of all, he seemed at peace. Like someone who had finally found that which he had sought after all his life.

She looked around in the Spartan little room that was so obviously the home of a scholar. Books, scrolls, writing utensils covered every available surface – not that there had been much of _that_ , either. Even the small chapel, with only the altar and the reliquary in its middle, was bigger than the cell where he actually lived. The whole place was rather barren; and despite having grown up in bitter poverty, she doubted that she could live like this. But the young hermit, working at his desk diligently, seemed content enough.

Like someone who had found his right place.

He had finally taken notice of her presence and set his pen aside, rising from behind his desk respectfully.

“Dame Astola; this is… unexpected.”

His voice, at least, was as it always had been: low-pitched and just a little bit hoarse. She hurried over to him, taking both his hands in her own.

“Unexpected indeed; for me even more so than for you,” she said. “I never knew you lived here.”

“That was my intention,” he replied with an earnest smile. “I wanted to begin my life anew – and this was the right place to do so.”

She held to his hands as if they were her lifeline, and he let her do so… for the moment.

“How are you doing, Garth?” she asked. “I was worried about you, in all these years! I prayed for your safety every single day.”

“I am well, as you can see,” he replied kindly. “I have everything I need, and I am well content. And it is _Brother Godric_ now,” he added. “I have left my old life behind; all of it, even my name.”

She understand the hint clearly enough. It hurt, but she knew it could not be changed.

“You’re not leaving this place, are you?” she asked, still holding onto his hands for dear life.

He shook his head, slowly, thoughtfully. His grey-blue eyes that had once followed her every step with such reverence, were now staring into a distance she could not see.

“No, my lady. This is the freedom I have always sought for.”

“Freedom?” she repeated incredulously. “You are confined to two tiny rooms, where you can barely turn around! You cannot call _that_ freedom!”

“Oh, but I can,” he replied, smiling. “And while my body is confined here indeed, my mind can travel to the farthest corners of Creation; and my soul can soar to the throne of God Himself. There is no greater freedom than that.”

A freedom he could never share with her. A freedom where she could never follow him. Even now that her husband – _his father!_ – was gone, she still had her obligations. Towards her stepson – _his brother!_ – towards her household, towards their tenants. She was their mistress, but in a way she was as much their servant as they were hers.

He, on the other hand, only belonged to God and to himself.

He would never be hers again. Not even in the chaste, platonic manner they had once belonged to each other. Those times were gone and would never return.

And she would never want any other man in her life. Not if she could not have _him_.

“I am glad you have found your right place,” she said.

There was no use to try changing his mind. He had chosen, years ago, and he would stick to his choice with true Saxon stubbornness. She would only humiliate herself; and she still had enough of her pride left not to do _that_.

Besides, she did not want his _pity_. If she could not have his love, she at least wanted his _respect_.

“Take good care of yourself, Garth,” she said, deliberately using his old name, the one he had left behind. For her, he would always remain Garth; even if no-one else would remember the name. “And forget not to pray for me sometimes. You owe me that much.”

She lifted one of his hands and kissed it; the first such touch between then, ever - and also the last one, as it seemed.

Then she let go of him trying to make herself believe that her heart was _not_ breaking.

She spent the following years taking care of her late husband’s manor and helping her stepson to tend to what lands remained for them. She saw that Hamo found a suitable wife and helped them raise their children as if they were grandchildren of her own flesh and blood. She lived long enough to see those children grow up and take their lives into their own hands.

But she never returned to Farewell, for the rest of her life.

  
~The End~

Soledad Cartwright@2011-08-06


End file.
